


The Lighthouse Keeper

by b0ba_f3rnz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, M/M, Pining, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b0ba_f3rnz/pseuds/b0ba_f3rnz
Summary: Martin Blackwood is the keeper of St. Mary's light. He is content to be alone.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 127
Kudos: 175





	1. The Lighthouse

Boney was a warrior…  
A warrior and a terrior…

Martin sang under his breath as he worked. His voice was no good, but that didn’t matter. There was no one around to hear him. The sound of the waves nearly drowned him out anyways. The sun shone on his back, his wool sweater trapping the small patches of warmth in the otherwise chilly fall afternoon. He picked up his bucket, splashing the last of the whitewash onto the walls, spreading it in thick, sloppy lines with his brush. He stood back. It would have to do for today, the sun would be setting soon. Although given how messy this looked, nightfall might not make much difference. Martin glanced towards the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in on the edge of the horizon, tingeing the falling sun. It would be a difficult night.  
Martin climbed the creaking stairs of the lighthouse tower, a piece of bread in one hand and a mug of strong black tea in the other. Under his arm was tucked the book of poems he had bought on his last trip to the mainland. For now, he could rest. He sat down in the rocking chair he kept in the lantern room, finding he had to light a candle to see in the fast fading light. Through the glass, he could see the squall brewing far off on the water.  
The light began to fail in earnest as Martin finished the last of his tea, and he got up, readying himself for the night. He poured the oil into the base of the lantern, shielding his eyes as he lit it. He began to turn the crank that turned the lens, and it began to rotate, blinking in and out of Martin’s view in steady rhythm. He opened the door to the gallery, pulling out his telescope to survey the area. No ships yet, but the sight of the waves below made his stomach lurch. He heard thunder roll above him, and quickly stepped back inside the lantern room. The light had begun to dim, although no one but him would have noticed. He turned the knob on the side of the lantern, raising the wick to give more fuel, and poured more oil into the base. He heard the thunder again, and counted 2 seconds before lighting cracked down, illuminating the island in a flash. The rain would be upon him soon. He pulled on his heavy raincoat, and prepared to make his second round of the gallery. Lighting struck again as he stepped out, and he felt rain begin to fall onto his hair. He pulled up his hood. Still no ships anywhere near the island, which was a good thing. The wind was rapidly becoming a howl around him, and he doubted he’d be able to see down to the water for much longer. He began to pray as he stepped back inside, a prayer that his light would keep and he would find no souls claimed by the rocky shores the next morning. The rain lashed against the glass panels, and Martin felt the door rattle. The wind, thunder and crashing waves surrounded him on all sides, but he found the noise of the island as calming as any lullaby.  
He topped off the oil in the lantern, but the rain and storm clouds were thick around him. Martin sat in his rocking chair, half reading, half continuing his murmured prayer.  
“Dear lord, may thy light shine through mine and keep souls from reaching heaven or damnation before their due, may my island shores be-”  
A light shot up into the sky. Martin looked up. It had not been lightning, nor was it the steady beam of the lighthouse. It was small, and died quickly, falling back into what Martin only assumed were the roiling waters.  
A distress signal.  
“Oh no.” Martin whispered, standing up. His book slid to the floor as he grabbed his coat and the small hand held lantern he kept. He struck a match, lighting the lantern, and pulled on his coat, running down the steps to the ground entrance. He could barely keep steady in the gale. He tried to remember what direction the distress signal had come from, and decided to make for the island’s south shore. He did not have to walk long before he saw the origin of the signal.  
What had once been a small boat, now a pile of shattered wood and cloth. It didn’t look like a fishing vessel. In fact, it looked as if it had only been built to hold one person. Martin raised his lantern, attempting to get a better look at the wreckage, and gasped.  
A single man lay, halfway onto the island, half still in the water. Martin dropped to his knees in front of him. His eyes were closed, but he appeared to be breathing. Just in case, Martin laid two fingers against the man’s wrist. He had a pulse. Martin hauled him out of the water, and over his shoulder. He felt something dripping down the sleeve of his coat, and was almost certain it wasn’t rain. 

The lighthouse keeper’s cabin only had a few rooms, including that spare bedroom that Martin himself had never once used. Well, tonight that would change, he thought, as he opened the door. He laid the man down on the bare mattress, setting his lantern down on the small table beside it. He looked almost as wrecked as his ship. A nasty bruise spread over half his face, and his shirt was torn, revealing a gouge that Martin could barely look at. From the bruising below it, he was sure that he had broken at least a couple of ribs. His left leg seemed to be twisted, too. He left the room, retrieving the small case of medical supplies from his kitchen, as well as a board for the man’s leg. He doubted the roll of bandages in there would be enough, and grabbed a clean sheet from his bedroom. He also grabbed one of his clean shirts. He hesitated, looking at the needle and thread on his dresser, but shook his head. He didn’t want to risk this man’s life further. He re-entered the spare room and opened the case, pulling out the bottle of disinfectant. He unbuttoned the man’s shirt, grimacing at the wound.  
“This is going to hurt.” He muttered, pouring the liquid onto a rag. “But maybe it’ll wake you up.” It did. The second Martin touched the rag to the man’s skin, his eyes flew open. Martin smiled at him reassuringly. “Sorry.” He said, wiping the skin around the wound as lightly as he could. He threw the rag into the bucket in the corner of the room. The man’s eyes closed again, his head flopping onto the pillow. Martin picked up the roll of bandages and slid his hand under the man’s back, lifting him into a sitting position, one arm stretched across the man’s collarbone to keep him from keeling forward. He began to wind the bandages around the man’s chest, careful not to wrap too tight and obstruct his breathing. Even as Martin finished the roll, he could see blood seeping through, so he cut off a section of sheet and wrapped it. From there, he doused a new rag in disinfectant, running it along the man’s arms, and wrapped them in strips of sheet as well. He set the board against the man’s left leg and wrapped it tightly. The man clenched his teeth together, but his eyes did not open. He had begun to shiver violently, his teeth chattering. Martin felt his forehead. It was already too warm, and Martin suspected the man would be feverish come morning. Carefully, he draped his shirt around the man’s shoulders and buttoned it up. He picked the man up, carrying him to the small living room. He laid a blanket down on the sofa, laying the man on top of it and covering him with another, thinner one. He lit the fire, and sat down in the armchair next to the man. His breathing was more even now, but Martin suspected it would be a while before he awoke. He knew he should get back to his light, but he was scared to leave this man alone. He seemed so fragile.  
Eventually, Martin got up. He banked the fire, keeping it lit but low so as not to cause any danger. He looked at the sleeping stranger one last time, and whispered a prayer for him. Then he picked up his lantern, and began to make the journey back to the lighthouse.


	2. The Researcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Sims wakes up in an unfamiliar place, and to further complicate things, he isn't alone.

Jonathan Sims ached. He opened his eyes slightly, to see sunlight shining bright through the thick glass window. Or maybe it was an open window? His head swam, and his vision felt distorted. Where was he? He was lying down. He attempted to push himself into a sitting position, but even the tiniest movement made his arms feel like they were on fire. He laid back, letting his head fill with the vague memories. There had been a storm, and his ship- no. That was not something he wanted to recall, at least not now. He attempted to focus on the details. He was somewhere, likely on solid ground, with a thick wool blanket covering him. And he was in a great deal of pain. He closed his eyes again, the light seemed to intensify an already pounding headache. He wondered if he had sustained some sort of injury to the brain. Suddenly, he froze. There were noises coming from some small distance away. It sounded a bit like somebody was in a kitchen. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, and a man with blonde curls seemed to melt into view in front of him.

“Oh, hullo!” He said, smiling. “You’re awake! I was starting to get worried, you’ve been in and out for nearly two days now. I mean, I really started worrying when I found you-” 

Jon sat up, ignoring the pain in his arms, and scrambled backwards, his leg sticking out straight in front of him. To his horror, he saw that it was set in a splint. Where was he? Who was this man, what did he mean by “I found you?”

“Who are you?” He asked, his voice hoarse. He winced, moving his mouth was more painful than he had anticipated. “Where am I?” 

The man held up his hands, his face concerned. “Hey, easy. You shouldn’t be moving that much.” 

“I asked you who you are.” 

“My name is Martin Blackwood. You’re at St. Mary’s light, off the coast.” 

He was at a lighthouse. That meant-

“My ship. What’s its condition?”

The man’s face fell, and Jon felt his stomach drop. 

“There really wasn’t much left of it. I’m sorry.”

Had Jon been in better condition, he would have yelled, or possibly kicked something. As it was, he lay back. A year and a half’s research, lost because of his idiocy. 

“Were you able to recover anything?” He asked. The man shook his head. 

“What do they call you?” The man, Martin Blackwood, asked. 

“What?”

“Your name, I mean.”

“Oh.” Jon said, taken aback by the question. “Erm, Jonathan. Jonathan Sims.” 

“Right.” The man said. “Well, Jonathan, there’s breakfast in the kitchen. I’ll bring some out to you, and then I’ve got work to do. Do you think you’ll be alright on your own?”  
  
"Of course I’ll be alright on my own, Mr. Blackwood, and-” He was about to say he didn’t need any breakfast, but at that moment he realized how hungry he was. 

The man smiled. “Please. It’s Martin.” 

He left the room and reappeared with a plate of toast and scrambled eggs, and handed it to Jon. Jon took it, nearly dropping it with the pain of lifting his arms.  
He continued to stand in the middle of the room, until Jon met his eyes. 

“I'll be back for dinner and supper, alright?” He said, and then left.

Had he been about to offer to help Jon eat? That was ridiculous, he decided, and so he was left to contemplate how to eat his rapidly cooling eggs without blacking out from pain or exhaustion. He settled for sitting hunched over the plate so that he would have to lift his fork as little as possible, every few seconds glancing around to ensure that Martin was out sight. It was utterly humiliating, but the burning resentment was mostly overtaken by his gratitude for the food, which he devoured within minutes, despite the pain of chewing. There was a low, searing pain in his chest, too, but he ignored it. He attempted to set his plate on the floor, not knowing where else to put it, but gasped at the pain of bending over. For the first time, he looked down at himself, and had to restrain another gasp. Through the shirt he was wearing, which he realized with a start was not his, he could see the faint outline of bandages, as well as what appeared to be strips of a bedsheet. His arms appeared to be in a similar state, Jon noticed, looking at them. For a brief second, he panicked, wondering if Martin had thought to disinfect the wounds before bandaging them, but the sensation of a stinging rag pierced through his hazy memories. He stretched down as far as he could, dropping the plate the rest of the way. It clattered against the wooden floor, but remained intact. He practically collapsed backwards, overtaken by sudden exhaustion, and for the first time since Martin had brought him breakfast, his mind turned again to his work. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to mentally curse his stupidity and bad luck. The thought of all of his work- his journals, his instruments, all of it- lost to the water was enough to render Jon incapable of thought at all. He stared numbly at the ceiling, an imagined loop of his shattered telescope and waterlogged notes playing in his mind like some sort of sick theatre performance. He lay there, the pain washing in and out like so many waves- not the best time for that metaphor, he thought. How would he explain this to the university? That thought was enough to lurch Jon from his stupor and into a state of panic. He had promised them his research would be revolutionary, but now all he had to show for their trouble was a pile of broken timber and, from the feeling of it, several broken ribs. His panic couldn’t last long with no energy to act on it, and so he was reduced to staring at the ceiling again, this time recalling in nauseating detail his last conversation before he had set sail. 

“Jonathan, not hiring a crew would be an enormous risk that we are not currently keen to take. How much experience do you have with sailing, anyways?” Professor Bouchard had asked, staring Jon down. His gaze always made Jon a tad uncomfortable, as if the man could see into his head. 

“Professor, I’m from Bournemouth, I spent half my childhood sailing.” 

Professor Bouchard pursed his lips. 

Jon continued. “A crew would do nothing but get in the way of my research, which, as I have told you, is of the utmost-”

“Yes, yes, Jonathan.” Professor Bouchard said, waving his hand. “Very well. A small sailing vessel will be outfitted for you, which you are to return in prime condition in 18 months time. If your research is as useful as you say, then this will not be a risk I regret taking.” He fixed Jon with that stare, and Jon had to fight not to shrink back. 

“Thank you, Professor.” He said. 

Jon continued to stare at the ceiling. His job was likely gone, he knew that much, even if he did manage to come up with a convincing lie to tell Professor Bouchard about the incident. Lord knows what he would do or where he would stay. Maybe he should ask Martin if he was taking on apprentices, he thought dryly. Regardless, he couldn’t stay at this lighthouse for long. Martin had a job to do, and taking care of a bedridden stranger was not part of it. Jon wasn’t exactly keen on being taken care of, either. He would ask Martin where the nearest town was, and if he could possibly be taken to the mainland. He would find a place to stay with the last of his research funds, which he had been smart enough to keep in a pouch around his neck. Although Jon had never been the best judge of character, he wagered a guess that Martin had not robbed him. A few days rest and he should be fine to make the trip to Oxford. He would at least face Professor Bouchard, even if he told him nothing but fanciful stories of pirates or uncontrollable storms. He wasn’t cowardly enough to simply run away, and despite the gnawing sensation in his gut, he had least had to attempt to keep his job. But he would have to do it soon to make his 18 month timeline. 

As if drawn by Jon’s thoughts of him, Martin appeared in the doorway, this time with a mug in his hand. 

“Dinner.” He said, handing Jon the mug, which upon closer inspection was full of some sort of stew. He picked up the plate off the floor. 

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwood- er, Martin.” Jon said. 

Martin smiled. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like a man with several broken ribs.” Jon said, holding the mug with both hands. The warmth gave him a sort of non-physical relief.  
Martin’s face seemed to cloud over. 

“Speaking of that.” He said, motioning towards Jon’s torso. “We’ll need to change those bandages soon. Tonight would be best, if you’re up to it.”

“We?” Jon asked, all relief flooding out of him. He sat up as straight as his bruised back would allow. “I am perfectly capable of treating my own injuries.” 

“You can’t possibly mean to do it alone.” Martin said, looking worried. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.” 

“As I said, I am perfectly capable.” He glared at Martin, who continued to look worried but held up his hands. 

“Alright.” 

“Am I to assume, based on the nature of my-” He hesitated. “Dressings, that there are no clean bandages?” 

“Just the strips of sheet, I’m afraid.” 

Jon sighed. “And the disinfectant?”

“I’ve still got that.” It’s in the kitchen, I can get it for you if you like.” 

Jon hesitated, but one glance at his leg told him that a walk to the kitchen would not be remotely possible. 

“Fine.” He said. 

“You should drink that, first.” Martin said, nodding to the mug in Jon’s hands. “You’ll need the energy.” 

He sighed. “Yes. I suppose that makes sense.” Martin smiled again, and walked off down the hallway.

He returned with the bottle of disinfectant, several sections of sheet, and a clean shirt. “I’ll be back for supper, alright?” He said. “Do be careful. And yell if you need me.”  
“You already said you’d be back for supper.” Jon said. “And I _won’t_ need you.” He muttered, once Martin had left the room. He unbuttoned his shirt, grimacing as he saw the full display of bandages. Either Martin was overly cautious, or he was much more badly injured than he had realized. He began to unwrap them. It was much more effort than he had imagined, and more than once he had to stop to catch his breath and stop his arms from burning. As he stripped away more fabric, his hand began to come away wet, and he felt his breathing became increasingly labored. What had happened to him? He pulled the last of the bandages away, looked down at himself, and then he, Jonathan Sims, fainted. 

“Jonathan?” His shoulder was being shaken. He blinked open to see Martin above him, looking scared. He tried to push himself up, and Martin helped him, gently lifting him so that he was sitting up. He was in a different room than before. 

“What happened?” He said, his voice groggy. 

“You passed out trying to change your bandages.” Martin said. “I changed them for you, I know you didn’t want me to, but-” 

“Martin.” Jon said, leaning back carefully. He felt pillows behind him. He was in a bedroom. He took a shaky breath. “I believe- I believe I owe you a thank you. If I judge the state of my injuries correctly, then it is quite possible your actions two days ago may have saved my life.” He sat there, awkwardly awaiting a response.

Martin shrugged. “Part of the job.”

“Right.” Jon said. “Regardless. Thank you.” 

“D’you want supper?” Martin asked. 

“Yes, that would be fine.” Jon said. 

He leaned back onto the pillows. They were unexpectedly soft. Martin returned.

“I’ve got a bit of time before it’s time for me to light the lantern.” He said. “D’you want company?” 

“There’s no need, I don’t want to keep you.” Jon said, taking his plate from Martin. “Er, thank you for this, too.” He said jerkily.  
Martin got up to leave. Jon, for a split second, thought he detected sadness in Martin’s smile. Though he couldn’t imagine why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the hits, kudos and comments on my last chapter! Here's the next one, as promised, hope you enjoy!


	3. Injuries and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wants to leave the island. This is what is scientifically known as a "bad idea."

Martin was used to the wild animals on the island. But, he thought amusedly, he didn’t usually let them into his house. Not that Jonathan Sims was uncivilized, but he always looked on edge, as if he was ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Still, he was welcome to stay as long as he needed, which Martin suspected would be quite a long time. Martin firmly believed that there was good inside of everyone, no matter how rough around the edges, and Jonathan had confirmed that when he had thanked Martin for finding him last night. Not that a proper thank you wouldn’t have been nice a bit sooner, but Martin could hardly blame the man for his emotional state. He certainly wasn’t a needy guest, either, in fact he seemed hell-bent on avoiding any sort of care. Martin suspected he might have already attempted to leave had they been on the mainland. It also didn’t hurt, Martin thought with a small smile, that he was not exactly difficult to look at, either. Lord, he must really be starved for company. He set down the rope he had been braiding, and checked his battered pocket watch. It was nearly noon. He got up, ready to prepare some sort of dinner for himself and Jonathan. When he entered the cabin, he saw Jonathan, sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling furiously on a scrap of paper. Martin had dug up some crutches that his father had once needed so the man could at least move around somewhat, but he still hadn’t expected him to leave bed any time soon. Anything he had been about to say died on his lips, as Jonathan looked up and spoke. 

“Ah. Martin. I had something I’d been meaning to ask.” He looked around at the open door. “I er- I hope I’m not keeping you.”

“No, not at all.” Martin said, confused. “I was just about to get dinner.” 

“Quite.” Jonathan said. “Well, I was just wondering. How far away are we from the mainland, and from there where is the nearest town?” 

Martin stared at him. Surely he couldn’t mean to be traveling already. “...Well, it’s close to half a day’s boat journey to the mainland." He answered slowly. "And from there...I’d say about another half hour’s ride to the nearest proper town. There’s a fishing village on the coast, but that’s nothing but shacks. You can’t be meaning to-” 

Jonathan cut him off. “Would you be able to transport me to the mainland.”

“I mean, I suppose, but where will you stay? And how will you get to the town? A coach trip does not sound like something-” 

“I’m sure I’ll be able to find an inn of some sort on the mainland.” Jonathan said, clearly beginning to grow annoyed. “And I think, given perhaps another day of rest, I should be in suitable condition for a coach journey less than a day long. I’ve got to get back to the university and explain myself, it’s my only chance of being allowed in any way to continue my research, and-”

“Jonathan!” This time it was Martin who cut Jonathan off. His voice was louder than he had meant it, and he would have been taken aback by it had he not been so frustrated. “You’ve got a broken leg, at least two broken ribs, and a gaping hole in your chest. Not to mention the fever you were running when I found you. Does that really sound to you like a man who is in any condition to be traveling?” 

He looked at Jonathan’s face. He appeared to have gone into shock, staring wide-eyed at Martin. Martin continued, feeling the words tumble out. “Not to mention that those crutches you’re using are mine.” That, he thought, was a stupid thing to say. He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Look. I can take you to the mainland if that’s what you really want, and you can stay in an inn or whatever. But seriously.” 

He looked up at Jonathan, who opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He still had that stunned look on his face. When he spoke, it was quiet, and the words came out awkwardly.

“I- I suppose you’re right.” He said, as if the words caused him pain. “I didn’t- I didn’t think about it like that.” 

Martin had no response, and so Jonathan continued. “Exactly how long do you think I’ll need to stay here?” 

Martin shrugged. “As long as it takes your injuries to heal. The leg’ll take the longest, but you can probably go before then if you need to. I’d say a month at least.” 

Jonathan seemed stricken, but he nodded. 

“Look, Jonathan. If leaving is that urgent…” 

He shook his head. “No, you’re right. As long as I’m not imposing too much, I suppose I should stay.” 

“Getting shipwrecked is hardly imposing.” Martin said, laughing. 

For the first time, Jonathan cracked a small smile. It quickly fell as he spoke again. “It is…very kind of you. To let me stay.” 

“Like I said, you’re not imposing too much.” Jonathan nodded. The silence began to fill the room, and Martin felt the need to break it. 

“What exactly is your research?” He asked. Jonathan’s posture visibly straightened.

“It has to do with the nature of the currents around the British Isles.” Jonathan said. “Obviously the fishermen have known them for centuries, but there’s very little  
scientific documentation beyond that of early explorers. If we could learn more about the actual movements of them, I believe we could absolutely transform the fishing industry, as well as…”

Jonathan talked for nearly 10 minutes, but after the first two Martin hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was talking about. He checked his watch, and cleared his throat as discreetly as possible. Jonathan stopped.  
“  
Sorry.” Martin said. “It’s just that I’ve got quite a bit to do this afternoon.”

“Oh, right.” Jonathan said, turning back to the paper he had been writing on, his stiff demeanor sliding back into place. “Of course.” 

Martin stood up. “I’ll be back for supper.”

He doubted that he would be eating alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of a section of the fic I call "Jon makes bad decisions because it's his character." Don't worry, it'll all work out in the end. If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know in the comments! Thank you for reading! Edit: Yes, I changed the chapter name, I felt that it was too wordy and didn't really fit the vibe of the fic.


	4. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin share a pleasant dinner. Unfortunately, this raises more questions than it answers for Jon.

Jon had never liked admitting when he was wrong. He could count on one hand the amount of times he had done so in recent memory. So why on earth had he done it for Martin, a man he had known for less than a week, less than two days if he only counted the times he was conscious? Still, the fact remained that he had conceded to Martin’s point, and would now be staying on this island for the foreseeable future. As much as it caused his stomach to clench, Martin was right. Jon was in no condition to travel, and now that he thought about it he would be less likely to keep his job if he showed up at Oxford with a broken leg and a face half covered in splotchy bruises. 

The light was fading, and Martin had come in to light the lamps and prepare supper. Jon was still at the table, which was tucked into the corner of the room with benches along the wall, and chairs on the other side. He had out the pen and piece of paper he had found with great delight in the bedroom that morning. He was attempting to put down on paper everything he could remember about his research. He had initially attempted to create some sort of organization system on the sheet, but had given up in favor of simply writing things down as they came to him. His writing was cramped and disorganized, but he trusted that he would be able to use it when necessary. If it was ever necessary again. His heart lurched with that thought, but before he had any time to dwell on it further he heard the clink of a plate being set down in front of him. He looked up to see Martin, who to his surprise was sitting down in the chair opposite Jon. It took a moment before the thought “He wants to eat dinner here” fell into place in Jon’s head. Surely Martin had duties to attend to, so why was he eating dinner with Jon? 

“Isn’t it about time for you to be lighting the lantern?” He asked.

Martin pulled out his pocket watch. How it still functioned was beyond Jon, he could barely even read the numerals beneath the cracked glass covering. 

“No, it won’t get properly dark for another half hour or so.” Martin said. 

Jon looked at him. “How can you know that?” Martin looked confused, and so Jon continued. “You’re able to figure out the time of the sunset just with your watch?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose.” He picked up his fork. “I guess if you’re paying attention to the day and night every day, you sort of get a sense for it. It’s not exact, obviously.”

“Fascinating.” Jon said, under his breath. “Er- what’s it like? Being a lighthouse keeper, I mean?” Jon asked. He cringed when he heard it. The question sounded so juvenile. Martin, however, looked thoughtful. Jon was about to tell him not to bother, that it was a stupid question, when he answered. 

“Honestly? I couldn’t tell you.” He must have spotted Jon’s confusion, because he went on. “It’s just that I don’t know what to compare it to. I’ve never done anything else. I’ve lived here my whole life, and when my parents died, I just became the keeper.” Something almost imperceptible changed in his face at the mention of his parents. “I guess it’s peaceful, mostly.” He said. “Busy, lots to do and maintain. But I like the quiet of it, most of the time.” 

“Liking peace and quiet is something we certainly have in common.” Jon said, smiling slightly. 

“You’re a researcher?” Martin asked.

“For Oxford University.” Jon said. 

Martin looked at him as if he expected to continue, and he realized that Martin was asking what his career was like. 

“Oh.” He said, not meaning to say the word aloud. He hurriedly continued. “It’s stressful.” He paused. “But I suppose I couldn’t imagine doing anything else either.” 

Martin nodded thoughtfully. 

“Actually, scientifically, I am curious- how exactly does your lantern operate?” Jon asked, leaning forward. 

Martin chewed on his lip for a second, and then to Jon’s surprise, he laughed. 

“You know? I couldn’t tell you that either.”

“What?” Jon said, in disbelief. 

“I mean, I know how to clean and maintain it and fix it if it breaks.” Martin said. “But I’ve no idea the actual mechanics of it.” 

Jon was slightly taken aback. “Well, I’d be fascinated to see it.” 

Martin stood up, and Jon noticed that the sun had fully set. 

“Maybe you can come up and see it sometime. When your leg’s healed.” Martin said, smiling.

“I think I would like that.” Jon said.

* * *

___Jon had difficulty sleeping that night. He had never had an easy time sleeping, his head was always buzzing with whatever observations he had collected that day and whatever questions they had raised or answered. But that night, there was one question playing on his mind. Why had Martin chosen to eat dinner with him? Their conversation had been cordial, even approaching pleasant, but like Martin had said, his job was busy. So why had he taken a half hour out of his day to talk to Jon, a near stranger? Maybe he was curious about Jon’s research? Then why not ask him about it outright as he had earlier that day? Maybe he had just needed a rest from his work, and preferred to spend it with Jon? But that didn’t make sense either, Martin had said he liked the quiet of the lighthouse. Suddenly, a voice floated to the surface of his mind, one of the first things Martin had said to him._ _ _

___“I was getting worried!”_ _ _

___Jon felt something in his chest tighten. So that was it. Martin was concerned for him. Well, he needn’t be. Jon felt heat rush to his face. Yes, Martin had been right in saying that Jon should stay on the island, but Jon now realized that his outburst that morning had been out of a sense of misplaced duty. The thought made Jon feel oddly betrayed, but that was quickly lost in his seething. He didn’t need to be watched over, he was in no immediate danger from his injuries and he was hardly able to do anything that would injure him further. He turned on his side and immediately gasped in pain, quickly settling back onto his back. Well, at least he knew what to do going forward. Martin didn’t need to care or worry for him, and he would make sure he hardly noticed his presence at all. As soon as he was able, he would be off this island._ _ _

___Anger was a sweeter lullaby than endless questioning, and so Jon was asleep within the hour._ _ _

___Jon awoke the next morning to a cloudy sky. His anger had settled like a weight in his stomach, but that was a good thing. It grounded him. He sat up, only wincing slightly at the pain in his chest. That was a good thing, too, he thought. Maybe he was healing faster than he’d hoped. He reached for his crutches and walked to the kitchen to prepare himself breakfast. He reached up to retrieve one of the pans hanging from the ceiling. He could at least make himself fried bread, and then he would sit at the table and continue his project. Martin could come and go as he liked, but Jon would spare him the trouble of keeping him company.  
This became a problem as soon as Jon sat down, and Martin appeared in the doorway. He rubbed his eyes, and stared at the table. _ _ _

___“Did you make breakfast?”_ _ _

___Jon nodded, tightly, expecting Martin to take his breakfast and leave, but instead Martin looked at him, his face creased with concern._ _ _

___“I mean, thanks, but you really shouldn’t be moving around that much. You- you do know your leg’s still broken, right?”_ _ _

___“I’m aware. But I’m perfectly capable of making myself breakfast.”_ _ _

___Martin still looked nervous, but to Jon’s horror instead of leaving, he sat down._ _ _

___Jon cleared his throat. Perhaps he would have to be a bit more direct. “There’s no need.”_ _ _

___Martin looked up at Jon, clearly confused. Jon’s hands tightened._ _ _

___“You- you don’t need to eat with me. I don’t need you watching over me, I won’t exactly keel over dead if you leave the room.”_ _ _

___Martin blinked, and then opened his mouth to speak. “Jonathan.” He said, slowly. “What the _hell _are you talking about?”___ _ _

_____Jon felt his face begin to burn with anger. “Don’t pretend like you’re not doing this out of a sense of charity, Martin.” He snapped. “I know that you feel like you have to, but I’m. Fine. And I think we would both be happier if we both went about our separate business.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Martin looked at him, and Jon could not figure out the expression on his face. He had expected to see mild concern or maybe even mild relief. Instead he looked...almost, hurt, somehow._ _ _ _ _

_____“I’m not doing this because I’m worried.” He said, his eyebrows creased. It certainly looked like he was worried to Jon. “I like your company. But clearly you don’t feel the same, so I’ll go.” He stood up, and walked to the doorway, where he turned around._ _ _ _ _

_____Jon opened his mouth to speak, to say that _obviously _he hadn’t meant any offense, simply that he didn’t need looking after, but Martin spoke first, the words coming out in a rush, like if he didn’t say them now he would lose his nerve.___ _ _ _ _

_______“Look, maybe you’re just upset but- would it kill you to be a little less rude, Jonathan?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Jon went silent again. How had Martin done that, shocked him into that mute silence again? How did he keep catching him completely off guard?_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“My friends call me Jon.” He blurted out._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He hadn’t meant to say it. It wasn’t even really true, while that had been the name his few childhood friends had called him, no one had used it in years. He had always liked the sound of the nickname, though, and had he had friends outside of academia he was sure that was how they would have known him. As it was, he just looked at Martin, who was looking more confused than ever._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“What?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Jon waved his hand. “Er- sorry. I don’t- I don’t really know why I said that just then, ignore it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“No, if that’s what you prefer to be called…” Martin trailed off. He still looked slightly hurt. “I should be going.” He said, and turned._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Martin, wait.” Jon said. “I- you’re right. Again.” He said, attempting a joke to deflect the involuntary lurch in his stomach that came with a second admission of error. “I’ve not been a very good guest.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Jon-” Martin said. “I told you you weren’t imposing. I wasn’t lying.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Right.” Jon said. “Er- if you’re not too busy, maybe we could have lunch together? I’d be interested to hear more about the-” He cast about for a subject. “Well, more about the island in general?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“If you want.” Martin said, sounding unsure._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Of course.” Jon said._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Jon looked out the door as Martin left, and saw that the clouds outside had given way to the bright morning sun._ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jon. Can you please just accept that sometimes people are nice? Don't worry, things are on the upswing for both of them, as you'll find out in the next chapter! Thank you guys for reading!


	5. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has some revelations about Jon's stay on the island.

Martin and Jon settled into a routine over the next few weeks. They continued to eat meals together, and slowly settled into well worn patterns of conversation. Martin was learning more from Jon’s explanations of his research than he had in all his life. Jon was a lousy teacher, always going off on tangents and using words that Martin couldn’t begin to understand, but his clear enthusiasm and passion made up for it. Besides, Martin liked looking at the way Jon’s face lit up much more than he liked looking at his notes. Jon also seemed to be fascinated by everything about the island, from the plants to the rocks along the shore. Every time he talked about it, his eyes seemed to glow, and Martin would feel his loneliness stab him like a stake. 

Martin had been telling the truth when he told Jon he liked the quiet of the lighthouse. Quiet was comfort. Quiet was a balm he could smooth over the great, churning loneliness in the pit of his stomach. Even when he visited the mainland twice a month for supplies, he was quiet Mr. Blackwood, the bachelor lighthouse keeper. No wife, no children, just Martin and his lantern and his books. 

But now there was someone here, a handsome stranger in his kitchen who had begun to crack the silence. Martin actually felt sad at the idea of Jon leaving, regardless of his rudeness, and even that had begun to fade. But Martin knew he would get used to it. Jon was temporary, and Martin did his best to keep that in mind. It wouldn’t be long before he was replaced with the eternity of the lighthouse and the solitude and the sea.  
Martin was content being alone. He just wished he had the choice not to be. 

He heard the door creak open behind him, and he turned to see Jon in the doorway. He was still balancing on his crutches, but as he looked out at the island, his eyes took on that familiar glow. 

“Jon, you really shouldn’t be-” Martin started, setting down the board he had been sanding. The cabin needed repairs before winter, and Martin had stepped outside this morning to the crunch of frost beneath his feet. 

Jon shook his head. “I won’t go far. I just needed some fresh air and-” he looked around at the island and the sea beyond it, then turned back to Martin. “You know, I could probably get quite a bit of research done here, if I had a better view of the sea.” 

“You could sit out here with me, if you like.” Martin said. 

“Yes, I think that would be suitable.” Jon said. 

Jon sat down on the rock beside Martin, and Martin noticed that his pen and paper were already clutched in his hand. He had surreptitiously left a few extra pieces of paper in the bedside drawer, and if Jon had noticed that they weren’t there initially he hadn’t said anything. Martin silently offered Jon a board he had set aside, and Jon took it, placing his paper on top of it. 

It was odd, the way they were beginning to fit together like that. Martin didn’t have to construct his day around Jon anymore, he was just there. A part of Martin’s life as much as anything else on the island. _Temporarily_ , Martin reminded himself firmly, and went back to sanding.

* * *

The lamps were burning low at the dinner table that night. Martin would need to go to the mainland soon for supplies, he thought distractedly. It wasn’t hard to be distracted right now, Jon was talking through some very long and complicated method of measuring ocean current velocity and Martin was thoroughly confused. Jon set his pen down, running his hand through his hair. His hand caught only a few inches in, and the words tumbled out of Martin’s mouth before he could stop them.   
“Jon, when was the last time you washed your hair?” 

Jon looked at him, eyebrows raised so high he looked like they were about to disappear. “What are you implying, Martin?” 

“You’ve been running your hand through your hair all day, and it’s-” Martin stopped short of saying _“it looks like a bird could make a nest in it.”_

Jon raised his hand, apparently about to run it through his hair again, but lowered it. His expression had shifted. 

“You’re saying I _should_ wash my hair?” 

“It- it looks like you could use it, is all.” Martin said, faltering. He had absolutely no idea what Jon was thinking. 

“And I assume you’re going to offer to help?” 

“You really shouldn’t be lifting your arms that much, but if you don’t want to-”

“Fine.” Jon said. “Alright.” 

Martin went to get the washbasin, still baffled. He hadn’t expected Jon to accept even the suggestion that he should wash his hair, let alone accept Martin’s help. He went through the motions mechanically, heating the water over the fire, melting a small amount of soap. He placed the washbasin on the kitchen table, and Jon sat down in front of it, tilting his head back until his hair was submerged.

Martin laced his fingers through Jon’s hair, and had to stop himself from gasping. 

He had touched Jon before, setting and changing his bandages, but that had been undercut by fear and urgency. Nothing this relaxed, this domestic. He felt that icy, piercing loneliness deep in his stomach, threatening to pull him under with how much he _wanted_. He stared down at his hands, feeling his heart begin to thud in his chest. He couldn’t just stay like this. Cautiously, he moved his hand. The water was warm, and Jon was staring at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought. He began to work his hands through Jon’s hair, steadily and carefully, focusing on the movements, in time with the words now coursing through his head. 

_Temporary. Temporary. Temporary._

Martin couldn’t let himself feel this. It would only leave him wanting more than his life, leave him sitting in his lantern room, staring at the last glimpses of light from the mainland fading, and wishing to God that he were with them. But he knew his duty. He would not abandon it. He couldn’t abandon it, he thought, thinking of the gravestone on the island’s western shore. 

But he couldn’t lie to himself, either. 

Jon’s breathing had become more even, and Martin was shocked to see that there was relaxation in his frame.   
“Done.” He said, quietly. He felt another wave rise in his chest, soaking in the fire, the warm water, and the low burning lamps of the kitchen. He began to wonder what it would be like to have this all the time, but stopped himself. He couldn’t be that far gone. It didn’t matter, as his thoughts were soon interrupted by Jon’s voice.  
“Thank you, Martin.” Jon sounded almost confused, like he was trying to work through some complicated scientific dilemma. Martin looked down to see that he was still holding Jon’s hair in his hands. It was long, nearly down to his shoulders. Then he felt that tumbling in his stomach, the feeling he knew heralded bad decisions he would be unable to stop himself from making. 

“Do you normally keep your hair this long?” He asked, knowing full well what he was walking into. _Please say yes. Please say no. Please say-_

“No, actually. It’s the result of a year at sea.” 

“Well-” Martin hesitated. Now was his chance to back out, to withdraw and save himself from being pulled under completely. 

He took a deep breath and dove. 

“I cut my own hair here, you know. I-I’m sure I could cut it for you if you like.” 

“Er- yes. Actually.” Jon said, puzzlement still lingering in his voice. Martin began to ask what was confusing him, but instead went to fetch the scissors.   
“You’re an idiot.” He mumbled to himself, resting his head against the doorframe. He stayed there for a second, letting the cool of the wood soak into his forehead. Then, not bothering to light the gas lamp, he fumbled for the drawer that contained the scissors. The same scissors he had used to cut the bedsheets for Jon’s bandages, he thought. 

He found the them, and carried them back out to Jon, who gave Martin a look that might have been an attempt at a smile. 

“I-” Martin began to say something, but it was washed away with the tide as he looked at Jon. 

He felt like he had placed his telescope to his eye, seeing every individual strand of greying hair, every twitch of his eyes, so dark that Martin could barely make out the pupils, that seemed to devour all the light from the lamp on the wall. The man sitting in his kitchen, who Martin now realized had well and truly shattered the thin veil that kept the loneliness at bay.

And he couldn’t even bring himself to mind. 

The world seemed to close in on him as he walked towards Jon. He stood behind him, scissors in hand, the warm air of the kitchen wrapping around him like the blanket he used on winter nights. He felt his stomach lurch.

“Ready?” He asked. 

Jon nodded. 

He gathered Jon’s hair in his left hand. The steam had made it curl slightly, framing his face. 

“I’ll leave it a bit long, yeah? That way if you don’t like it…”

Jon shrugged. “No point. No one will see it anyways.” 

Martin ignored the twisting in his stomach. Apparently he had worked his way into the background of Jon’s life as well. 

He cut through Jon’s hair. 

The kitchen was quiet aside from the sounds of his scissors. 

Jon cleared his throat. 

“Did you know that a strand of human hair is stronger than a copper wire of the same width?” 

Martin stopped mid-cut.

“What?” 

“It has a strength-to-weight ratio comparable to that of steel.” 

“...I’ll keep that in mind.” Martin said, simply because he had no idea what else to say. He raised his scissors again. 

The silence had gone from peaceful to awkward, and so Martin spoke again. 

“Er- how long have you been a researcher?” 

Jon looked upwards, as if calculating something. 

“About… 8 years, I think. I got the job just as I finished university.”

“So you just never really left university, then?” Martin asked, laughing slightly. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Just couldn’t let the _thrill_ of academia go.” Jon said, sarcastically. “Not that I dislike my job, of course.” He said, immediately sobering. “As I’ve said before, I- I honestly don’t think I could imagine doing anything else.” 

“I liked school, too.” Martin said. “Aside from maths, I was dreadful at that.” 

“An unfortunately common complaint.” Jon said. He paused. “What… did you like about school?” 

“The books.” Martin said, smiling. “Still do. I’ve got a few poetry collections I’ve bought from the mainland.”

“Could never do poetry.” Jon muttered. “None of it makes sense.” 

Before Martin could splutter an outraged response, he heard a crack from outside the house. Martin watched as the first few raindrops began to hit the windowpane.   
“Damn.” He muttered, putting down the scissors. 

“You’re going, then?”

He turned back to Jon. “Got to. I was done anyways. You can look in the bathroom mirror if you like.” 

“Yes.” Jon said, reaching for his crutches. “Thank you- again. For your kindness.” He chuckled. “I seem to be saying that quite often.” He looked up at Martin. “Maybe you’ll find something to thank me for someday.” 

“Maybe.” Martin said, feeling his face twist into a smile. It was all the response he could manage. He opened the door, the night feeling all the colder for the time he had spent in the kitchen. 

_You’ve certainly given me something_ , he thought. _I just hope I come to thank you for it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jason Mendoza voice* We're really in it now!   
> I updated the tags to include "pining" a couple of chapters ago, and now you all know why! This was also the first time it took me more than a few days to write a chapter, as I had absolutely no idea how to make this scene romantic instead of just incredibly awkward. Hopefully I pulled it off! I hope you guys liked it, and thanks for reading!


	6. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has some recollections about his life before the shipwreck, and some realizations about his life after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note, this chapter does feature a description of a flashback and vague description of a panic attack, as well as a character struggling pretty hard with self worth, so please proceed with caution.

Jon was relieved to have his hair short again. That was all, he reasoned. That was the only reason he had allowed Martin that close to him that night.  
But that did not explain his unease with the silence of the house that morning. 

Jon was in the living room today. It had been a week since he had allowed Martin to cut and wash his hair. He had allowed Martin to wash his hair again the previous night. It was practical. That night, Martin had explained that he would be leaving early in the morning to travel to the mainland for winter supplies, and that he should be back by sundown. Jon would be alright here alone, yes? He had thought he would be glad of the silence, but was shocked at the lack of just that. Every small noise from the island seemed louder when he was alone.

Jon ran his hand through his hair, and again was surprised at how soft it felt beneath his fingers. Everything that Martin touched was soft, from the shirts he had lent Jon to the blanket Jon had wrapped around his shoulders as he sat. 

_Even you’re going soft, Jonathan Sims._ He shook his head. That was ridiculous. He had simply grown used to Martin’s presence, and his absence was unnerving. That made no sense, he had lived and worked (at least when he had the choice) alone since leaving university. Perhaps he had suffered a head injury, he thought. Maybe he had developed bouts of nerves after his accident. 

He looked out the window. The sun was making a great effort to shine through the grey sky, but only occasionally succeeding. He could still see frost on the grass beyond the house, even though it was mid afternoon. It was early November, and Martin had mentioned that the first snow would likely be falling soon.  
Martin’s patchwork of knowledge both interested and somewhat annoyed Jon. On the one hand, it was fascinating that Martin had gained such an intuitive sense of the mechanisms- if one could think of them as such- of the island, but the fact that he had no idea of the deeper scientific workings of his knowledge was endlessly irritating. Jon had attempted to explain some of his ideas and theories on weather patterns, but it was clear that Martin, while interested, was far too busy with practical matters to truly gain anything. Maybe he would ask Martin if any of his family had kept any sort of journal or record, he thought. He could perhaps add any observations he found in them to the scraps of research he had been compiling. 

His heart faltered as he thought of that. Keen as he had been a month ( good lord, it really had been a month) ago to get off the island, the idea of leaving now made him nauseous. The idea that he might actually lose his job had only begun to sink in a few days ago, when he had been lying in bed. The thought had been enough to send him into another spell of blind panic, and he had been unable to sleep at all, unable to move off his back, just staring numbly at the ceiling. 

Martin had commented, concernedly, at his exhausted appearance the next morning. 

He had nowhere else to go. Jon knew that. He had nothing to show for his ten years of adulthood but a few scientific papers and a rented room in the cheapest respectable boarding house he could find. He had no friends or family to stay with, a thought that made his stomach twist in shame. 

The idea crossed his mind, not for the first time, that he could just stay with Martin. Martin certainly didn’t seem to mind his company, in fact he actively sought it out. And there were plenty of opportunities for scientific study on the island. The thought of him and Martin, passing the days together seemed almost- it couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t be proper for Jon to just take up living with a practical stranger- which Martin still was, he reminded himself. And just because he was a kind host didn’t mean he wanted another permanent resident in the house. 

Jon got up. He needed to move. His leg, according to Martin, had been healing _“just splendidly”_ , a thought that would have exhilarated him but now just added to the weight in his stomach. What would he say to Professor Bouchard? He had spent all of that first sleepless night attempting to come up with some sort of story to tell him, pirates, maybe? But there hadn’t been any in the area for decades, and Professor Bouchard was sure to know that. He could tell him the truth, or at least some of it, that there had been a storm that he had been unable to weather and he had ended up stranded.

What he could not do was tell Professor Bouchard the whole truth. 

Which was that he had let the ship be run aground. 

Jon felt his hands tighten around his crutches. He was outside, though he hardly remembered leaving the cabin.

He was cold. He could feel the draft coming in through the door that led to the ship’s cabin. It was small and cramped, but Jon had never minded. He could hear the wind howling outside, rocking the boat back and forth. He thought, absentmindedly, that maybe he should have cast his anchor. _I can’t focus on that right now_ , he thought sternly. He ran his hand through his hair- lord, it was a mess. His notes were spread in front of him, loosely bound in his leather journal, the handwriting ranging from barely-legible to black smudges. He needed to figure it out. His time at sea was coming to an end. The poorly drawn diagrams of ocean currents and his weather log suddenly slid from his vision as the boat lurched sideways. The wind reached a fever pitch. Jon looked up from his dive to catch his notes. This storm was worse than he had thought. He frantically glanced back and forth between the stairs leading to the deck, and his notes. He couldn’t leave his work, not now, he could sense that he was on the verge of some grand conclusion- of what, he didn’t know, but it was there. 

Just as he had sat back down at his desk, hand gripping his pen, he had heard thunder crash overhead, and then he had been thrown backwards off his chair. 

Jon reeled backwards at the memory of waking up to the boat hitting rocks, the horrible crunching and grinding filling senses. He nearly lost his balance, gripping at his crutches for dear life.

And then he began to cry. 

It started as quick inhalations, something he could blame on the surprise of nearly falling and the unpleasant memories, but soon tears were dripping down his face and he was bent double, ignoring the pain in his ribs, attempting to suppress a sob. 

_Stupid. Useless._

He had let everyone down. He had betrayed Professor Bouchard’s trust in him, he had disappointed his colleagues at the university, he had absolutely nothing to show for his grand claims about his “revolutionary research” and “grand scientific expedition.” 

None of them really liked him, he could tell that there was nothing beneath their bright pleasantries and compliments of his work. He had never attempted to change this, he didn’t need to be liked as long as he was respected. But he had failed at that too, unable to achieve even a semblance of worth. His world had given way as the hull of his ship splintered beneath him, and he was left with nothing. 

Not even left with nothing. 

He was nothing. 

He inhaled, shakily. The cold bit at him, and the sun had sunk significantly during his contemplations. He should get inside. Martin would be back soon. The thought sent that strange feeling through him, that non-physical warmth he had felt when Martin had offered him dinner on his first conscious day on the island. 

He now recognized it. It was comfort. 

He had left the door to the cabin open, and the chill had invaded the air. But the walls were solid, and would not break. He lit the lamps, and looked at the blanket on the floor. He pulled it around him again, letting the warmth melt the pieces of him back together, and sat down to wait for Martin. 

The sun set.

Martin did not return. 

_He’s probably just been delayed._ Jon thought. _Perhaps an issue with his ship, or something holding him up on the mainland. He’s fine._  
The sky began to get darker, and Jon began to hear the crunching noise of his ship against the shore of the island.  
Martin’s fine. He’s lived his whole life on the sea, I’m sure he’s a proficient sailor. 

Martin wouldn’t be home in time to light his lantern. 

This was what pushed Jon up off the sofa. He had seen how fastidious Martin was about having his lantern lit on time. He needed to be home for that, and for no other reason. 

He wished he had thought to put on his (or rather Martin’s) sweater as he pushed open the door. He was still unsure of what exactly he meant to do once he got outside. He had, thankfully, thought to bring his (Martin’s) lantern. He faltered as he stepped out onto the frozen grass. He thought about making the difficult climb up to the top of the lighthouse on his crutches, but he felt nervousness creeping into him at the idea. That wasn’t the only thing making him nervous, though. He looked out at the sea. Where was Martin? Why had he not come back by now? The memory of Jon’s own shipwreck began to pull at the edges of his mind.  
He turned from the lighthouse. He would go to the dock, which Martin had told him was on the island’s Eastern shore. Just to check. Just to make sure Martin wasn’t- hurt. Or anything. He felt his nerves begin to rise as he crossed the field. Martin was alright. He had to be alright. 

He only made it halfway across the field before his leg gave out beneath him. He fell, somehow cradling the lantern so that it didn’t break. Pain shot through his leg, but thankfully his crutches had remained intact and close to him as well. He maneuvered himself upwards. In the admittedly dim glow of his lantern, nothing looked obviously wrong with his leg. 

“Jon?”

Jon turned around to see a dark figure walking up the field towards him. His face was soon illuminated by his lantern, and he felt warm relief flood through him.

“Oh, thank God, Martin.” 

“Are you alright?” Martin asked, brow furrowed. 

“You- you said you’d be home by sundown.” Jon wasn’t sure if he had meant it as an accusation or a plea. 

“There were some high winds when I got back to the harbor, and I didn’t think it was safe to set out. But that doesn’t explain why you’re in the middle of the field at night in your shirtsleeves.” 

Jon looked down at the ground. 

“I was worried.” He muttered. 

A moment passed before Martin spoke. “You don’t need to worry about me, Jon.” 

He said it gently, and sounded almost amused. Jon had told people they didn’t need to worry about him more times than he could count, but Martin spoke them in a different language entirely. 

“You can hardly blame me for being concerned.” Jon said, somewhat harshly.

“I suppose I can’t.” Martin said. “If we started blaming each other for every little thing, living together would be completely unbearable.”

“I don’t think you could be unbearable if you tried.” Jon said. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it had come out all the same. 

“Er- thanks, Jon.” Martin said. He cleared his throat. "Let’s go inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooo boy we're really in it now. This was hands down my favorite chapter that I had written when I first wrote it, and it's still one of my favorites to re-read. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did!


	7. The Lantern Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin learn a bit about each other and the island.

Martin thought he had been doing quite well, all things considered. He had managed to stop his chest from aching every time he looked at Jon’s short hair, and he had barely given himself a moment to wonder why Jon had reacted the way he did after Martin’s supply trip. Winter was rapidly approaching, and so he had been quite busy over the past two weeks suring up the cabin for the brutal storms sure to come. Unfortunately, Winter also brought Jon wearing Martin’s sweaters and leaning down to stoke the fireplace in the evening. 

His ribs seemed to be healing, as well as his leg, and surprisingly enough, his mood. He was almost cheerful at times, now. The bruises on his face had long since faded, in fact they weren’t quite as bad as Martin had initially thought. The circles under Jon’s eyes looked like spilled ink. 

He had been sleeping well since he had been in the cabin, though. 

Martin was happy that Jon was healing, and that he would be able to go home soon, wherever home was for him. Of course he was happy about that.  
Then why wasn’t he? 

Martin snuffed the thought as if it were a candle burning too close to his bedside table. But that didn’t stop him from feeling the hot wax on his fingers.   
Jon wasn’t here to stay. Martin had known this, and part of him wanted to curse himself for his stupidity in letting himself get remotely close to him. He should have stayed the generous host, kind Mr. Blackwood, the bachelor lighthouse keeper. 

But he never could keep himself distant, could he. His father had said that he was a reckless sailor, never good at avoiding the waves. He’d end up shipwrecked if he wasn’t careful. Look at him now, he had dove into the ocean, and no matter how well he told himself he was swimming, he was still in the water. 

Jon interrupted his reverie, entering the living room with the dull thud of his crutches. 

“It’s going to be a lovely night, I think.”

Martin started. “O-oh. That’s good news.” 

Jon hesitated, an odd look on his face. He opened his mouth, and then paused. 

“Could I come up with you tonight? To see the lantern?” The words came out in a rush. “As it’s going to be so clear I was also thinking of collecting some astronomical data, to add to my research.” 

Martin hesitated, everything he had been thinking filled his head at once. He should say no, give some excuse about Jon’s leg not being healed enough to handle the stairs. 

_You could help him up the stairs._

“Martin?” Jon was looking at him, and when Martin looked back Jon’s face seemed to set. “Of course. I understand.” He said. 

“Wait!” Martin said, before he could stop himself. “O-of course you can come.” 

It was stupid of him, and Martin would have kicked himself for it- had it not been for the smile Jon gave him.

“You’re sure about this?” Martin said. It was evening, and he was standing outside the door of the lighthouse with Jon. Jon nodded. 

“I’ll be behind you, I know it’ll take a while.”

“I can assure you, I’ll be fine.” 

“Been a while since I heard that.” 

Jon laughed, and swung open the door. He seemed to take a moment to process the height of the staircase before he cautiously raised himself onto the first step. Then the next. Martin stayed behind him. Jon made it up 5 steps before he turned, his eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Er- Martin. This is- this is highly inefficient.” He said, his eyes flicking up to meet Martin’s. “Could you possibly- I mean, it would go much more quickly if-” 

Martin slid his arm under Jon’s shoulder. 

“Thank you.” Jon whispered. 

“Oh, good lord!” Jon said as they entered the lantern room. He broke free from Martin immediately, or rather as immediately as he could manage. He bent over on his crutches, inspecting the base of the lantern as if asking it to give up its most precious secrets. He removed a folded up sheet of paper and pen from his back pocket (of course had kept them there) and began to scribble, the page balanced on his hand. 

Martin picked up the oil canister and began to pour it into the base of the lantern. Jon watched, enraptured. 

“Block your eyes.” Martin said. He didn’t wait to see if Jon did so, shielding his own eyes as the lantern exploded into brightness. Squinting, he reached down to turn the crank, and the lens began to rotate. 

“I’d love to look at the actual mechanics of it.” Jon said, ruefully.

“If you touch it, I’ll throw you off the gallery.” Martin said, smiling. A bit much, perhaps, but it felt good to know there were still important things to him besides Jon. 

“I would never!” Jon said indignantly. 

Martin laughed. 

Jon turned to the gallery. 

“We should get an excellent view of the night from here- at least when the light is facing away from us.” 

“We?” 

Jon turned to him. “Oh. Of course, you’ll want to stay inside, what with the- with the cold and all.” 

Martin stilled. 

Jon was asking him to stand outside on the gallery, to stand next to him, to- 

It was too much. Martin nodded. 

“Can’t abandon the light." He said, stiffly. "Oh!” He said, picking up the telescope that lay on the small side table. “You’ll be wanting this.” 

Jon took it, and nodded, then disappeared out the gallery door. The heavy wood shut out the thud of his crutches. 

Martin sat in his chair. He couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. Or his feet, or any of him for that matter. He went to check the light, but nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed. 

He was tired. He was trembling from the effort of taking Jon up the stairs, and the effort of having Jon in his house, and the effort of thinking, no, knowing, that he would leave. 

But he felt more deeply that he was tired of caring. He was tired of tying himself up with sailor’s rope and caging himself in the lantern room of his lighthouse. Dammit, for once in his restrained life, was he not allowed to want and maybe to receive?

He got up, his mouth dry. Maybe he would get shipwrecked. Maybe he already was. 

He opened the door, and walked out next to Jon on the gallery. He was standing without his crutches, and Martin would have told him that he still shouldn’t be putting weight on that leg but his mouth seemed to be filled with splinters.

“W- what are you seeing?” He asked. His voice was small, and trembled a bit. 

Jon lowered the telescope, and then raised it again. To Martin’s eye. 

“Orion’s emerging.” 

Martin laughed, feeling every individual puff of steam as he did so. “I know him.” 

“Hmm.” Jon said. Martin noticed that he was only holding the small telescope with one hand.

His other hand hung at his side. 

Martin could feel himself steering close to a powerful surge. 

He moved his hand, so little it was almost imperceptible. It was less than a centimeter away from Jon’s. 

“Auriga. The charioteer.” Jon said, putting the telescope to Martin’s eye again. His hand did not move. 

Martin did not speak, he just nodded, as the lighthouse lantern passed over them, momentarily erasing the stars. It passed off them again.

Their hands were so close.

Martin could feel the steam when he breathed. 

Like a rapid inhalation. 

Jon’s hand wrapped around his. 

He continued to stare straight ahead. Martin was sure of this, even though he didn’t look at Jon. He didn’t feel like he could.

Jon’s palms were smooth, but his fingertips were worn, and he felt a burn on one of them that he somehow hadn’t noticed ever before. 

How many other things about Jon did he have left to notice?

“Taurus.” Jon said. He must have raised the telescope to his eye again.

“Know that one, too.” 

Jon lowered the telescope. He continued to look ahead. He did not let go of Martin’s hand. 

“Martin.” Jon said, and for the first time, Martin looked at him. He was looking down now, and even as the light passed over them again, he couldn’t read his face.   
“Why lighthousekeeping?”

“I’ve told you, it’s my family.”

That was true, and it wasn’t. Martin looked down at the boards beneath him.

“My great-grandfather was the first, then my grandfather, and then my dad. Dad didn’t really want the job, though. He always wanted to be a sailor. So when he married mum, he’d go off at sea and she kept the lighthouse for him. He’d always come back after a few days until- until he didn’t.” He swallowed. “But mum still kept the lighthouse. She kept vigil every night, even when she got sick, even when everything-” He stopped again. “I tried to help her.” He said, quietly. “I tried my best. And now she’s gone, I keep it up, you know?” 

Jon looked down at the ground below them, over the railing. “I suppose that makes my next question rather pointless.” He said. 

“You can ask it anyways.” 

Jon shut his eyes, his free hand gripping the railing. “Have you- have you ever considered leaving? Living somewhere else, I mean.” He glanced at Martin, but his eyes darted away as he spoke. “With someone else.” 

Martin’s heart stopped, floating weightless between his head and the floorboards. The feeling of Jon's hand in his seemed to reach him through a thick fog.

“I can’t.” It was barely more than a whisper. “I’ve got to stay.” He felt the words spill out along with his tears. “I couldn’t keep her alive. I tried, I swear I tried but I failed. So I’ve got to keep this alive instead. It’s- it’s all I can do.” 

“Martin.” Jon said. He was looking at him now, but glanced away when Martin met his eyes. He didn’t need to keep looking at him, though. As Jon stared ahead, Martin felt his thumb move, as Jon swept it, slowly and deliberately, across the back of his hand. Martin felt the fog begin to melt, his body rematerializing with every sweep.

“I understand.” He said, softly. 

“Do you?” Martin said, before he could stop himself. 

Jon looked at him, and met his eyes. 

“Yes.” 

Jon didn’t need to ask Martin to help him down the stairs again. Truthfully, he probably needed some help as well. His thoughts were a jumble of light and the way that Jon’s hand had left his, lingering for just a second longer than he really needed to. Martin didn’t know if he could break himself from his thoughts long enough to take the stairs on his own. 

His thoughts were broken for him as Jon’s foot landed too hard on the stair below him. He hissed through his teeth, his hand immediately reaching for his leg. Martin dove to support him. 

“Jon? What happened, a-are you alright?” 

“I’m f-” Jon stopped, seemingly realizing it was pointless to attempt that answer. “I fell.” He said, his teeth still gritted. “When I was outside, when you were gone.”

“Oh, Jon.”

“It’s not your fault.” Jon said, looking at Martin intensely. “It’s not your fault, Martin. I- I will be fine.” 

“Well, you still shouldn’t put any weight on it.” Martin said, looking uneasily at the stretch of stairs below them. He turned back to Jon. “I-” He hesitated. “I can help you. More, than I already was, c-carry you. I mean.” 

“That would be… efficient, yes.” Jon said, avoiding Martin’s gaze. 

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.” Martin said, gently. “I can stay in front of you while you go down on your crutches. We’ve got all the time in the world.” 

Jon looked at him as if he was steadying himself. 

“Please be careful.” 

“You know I’ve got you.” 

Jon inhaled. “I do.” 

Jon’s leg was fine, at least as far as Martin could tell. He’d reset the splint, though. Just in case. He didn’t think the way Jon had let his hand fall right next to him as he had been doing it was accidental. 

Martin dreamt of calm seas, and sturdy, well built ships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAH I've been waiting to post this chapter for so long!!! I really hope you all enjoy it! A couple of quick announcements, number one is that chapters 8 and 9 will be released as one chapter this coming Tuesday, as chapter 9 is really short. The second is thank you so much for over 600 hits!!! When I first posted this I didn't even imagine it breaking 100, so to have this amount is absolutely mind blowing. Thank you all so much for your support, and I'll have the next 2 chapters ready by Tuesday!


	8. New Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes some discoveries and some decisions.

Jon would ask Martin if he could stay the winter with him. It was too cold, there was too much of a chance of storm, it couldn’t possibly be safe for Martin to take Jon to the mainland. He doubted he’d even need to use that excuse, truth be told he doubted he’d even need to ask. But he would. Just to hear him say yes.  
He didn’t understand why he had grabbed Martin’s hand that night. But for once, he was fine not understanding. 

It had happened again. Jon had been sitting on the sofa, watching the fire. Martin had come in, looking nervous, and sat down on the sofa next to him. They had stayed that way for a few minutes, until Martin inhaled, and silently offered Jon his hand. Jon had taken it. They had continued to watch the fire, not talking. They hadn’t needed to. The way Jon felt, wrapped in Martin’s hand and in the warmth of the fire- warmth that also emanated from Martin, he realized, had been enough. 

Even in the gray winter, the island was starkly beautiful, at least when it wasn’t covered in fog. Jon glanced around from where he had been sitting to see if Martin was anywhere in his view. He wasn’t. It didn’t matter. They had long gotten used to each other’s comings and goings. He got up, bracing his hand against the frozen ground. He had traded his crutches for a walking stick, and if Martin’s math was good, Jon’s leg should be fine within the next couple of weeks. Not that it really mattered to Jon anymore. He had continued collecting whatever information he could extract from the island, but it no longer had the frantic energy of a man trying to save his life’s work. His mind had only idly drifted to Professor Bouchard over the past few weeks. 

He realized, with a jolt, that he didn’t really care if he kept his job anymore. His 18 month deadline was up at this point, but even if Professor Bouchard accepted what cobbled together findings he had, Jon didn’t think he could go back to the cramped halls of Oxford or the paper thin walls of his boardinghouse. 

He didn’t think he could live alone anymore. 

Jon felt like this realization should have bothered him, but maybe he was content here, with Martin. Maybe he would never go back, and maybe he didn’t need to.

This was ridiculous, Jon thought. But he was smiling all the same. 

He began to walk, heedless of the direction. He did this often, when he couldn’t find Martin or when he ran out of things to do in the house. Sometimes he’d pick an animal and count how many of it he saw, but more often he would simply wander until he reached one of the island’s shores. 

He did not realize until it was too late that he was heading to the island’s southern shore. 

Jon could have turned back. But whatever reconsiderations he had about a life spent in academia, the feverish need to know still burned in his chest. 

So he kept walking, until he reached what had been his ship. 

Jon stared over the edge overlooking the cove. He had thought about what he would see, but he hadn’t known it. Not really. He hadn’t been prepared to see the ruins of himself, splintered wood, crushed glass and chunks of what he assumed was the leather that had covered his notebook. The leather had been bright red, but the seawater must have discolored it. 

If his ship had looked like that, what had he looked like when Martin had found him? Jon blinked at this thought, it seemed so out of place with the emptiness in his stomach as he looked downwards. 

Was that a flash of red he saw in his periphery?  
His neck snapped around so fast that for a moment he was worried he would sustain yet another injury. But there it was, the tiniest hint of red leather. 

It was nothing, he thought. Probably just a piece of the cover that had somehow escaped the sea’s cruelty. 

But he found himself scrambling down to his ship all the same. He bent over, expecting to feel a rough scrap of worn leather. But what he felt was soft, and surprisingly heavy. Confused, he tugged at it.

He felt dry paper beneath his fingers. 

His breath stilled as he numbly pushed away the board covering this...thing. 

His journal. Completely intact. He picked it up, not realizing what he was doing. The cover was scratched, some pages were torn or wet or discolored but- it was there.  
And he could read most of the notes.

The world stopped in place. He felt his fingers digging into the leather cover, drawn to it like a magnet. Martin had said there had been nothing left. How had Martin missed this? 

_Had Martin missed it?_

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. Martin wouldn’t lie to him. He knew Martin, he trusted him. 

It didn’t stop the anger rising like bile in his stomach. What if Martin had kept it from him for some unknown reason, what if he had had ulterior motives for keeping him on the island? A burst of pain in Jon’s leg told him he had started pacing and had left his walking stick behind, the sensation sending his mind to a screeching halt. He had to think this through. 

As much as it went against every twisting, distrustful sensation in his gut, he forced himself to admit that he had no reason to think that Martin would have hid this from him. But the thought that he might actually stand a chance of keeping his job was more than enough to settle his stomach. He felt almost dizzy. He could continue his research, he, Jonathan Sims, had the chance to change the world. 

His brain froze as it tripped onto a thought of Martin. Martin, who was tied to this lighthouse.

Jon looked down at his hands, clutching at his notebook, his knuckles white. 

He couldn’t give this up. 

He did not know which “this” he was referring to. 

He picked up his walking stick and began to walk back to the lighthouse, his notebook carefully tucked under his arm. 

The light was fading as Jon pushed open the door to the cabin. Martin was setting the table, and looked up with a wide smile.

“Hullo, Jon. Was wondering when you’d be back. Find anything interesting?” 

Jon’s mouth was completely dry. 

Martin looked up, his eyebrows creased. “Jon? Everything alright?” 

Jon cleared his throat. “I found my notes.” 

“What?” 

Jon held out his notebook to Martin. “A-all of my research. Completely intact.” 

Martin took the notebook, holding it like it was about to shatter.

“Wow. That- that’s incredible.” He handed it back to Jon, and returned to setting the table. 

Jon stood in the same spot in the kitchen, clutching his notebook, his mind still frozen. Martin spoke again.

“When do you want me to take you back to the mainland?”

“What?” Jon said, looking up sharply. Had he not seen Martin standing in front of him, he would have thought a different person entirely had spoken the question in that controlled, emotionless tone. 

“Well, since you’ve got all your research, you’ve probably got a good chance at keeping your job, right?” Martin was still looking down at the table, and leaving Jon utterly lost as to his expression. 

“I- I suppose that’s true.” 

Martin looked up, and when he spoke this time it was soft. “So do you want me to take you back?” 

Jon felt his hand clench on his notebook. He straightened his back, and cleared his throat. 

“Yes. As soon as possible.” 

“Tomorrow, then.” Martin said, smiling pleasantly. His voice had resumed that neutral tone, and Jon wanted to scream that this was not Martin. This was not the man he knew. But it was coming from his mouth, was it not?

“Er- right. Should I look into acquiring a new walking stick?” 

Martin set down the last plate and walked over to the stove. “S’not like I’ll ever have any use for it.” 

“Quite.” Jon said, sitting down at the table. The word hung awkwardly in the air.

“I’ll be glad to continue my work.” 

“I’m sure you will.” Martin said, setting the pot of soup down on the table. Jon tried not to look too long at his hands as he ladeled soup into their bowls, tried not to remember how warm they made him feel. How much he would miss that warmth. 

There were fireplaces at Oxford, he reasoned. 

Jon woke up in a flash of panic the next morning. Staring at the ceiling, he comforted himself with the thought that he could simply spend the day with Martin, an activity that always seemed to lessen his anxiety. 

Except that he couldn’t. 

Jon rolled onto his side, groaning at the stab of nausea he felt at the prospect of going back to Oxford. Why did he feel that way? He should be thrilled to continue his work, it was what he had been itching to do since he had been stranded here. 

He pushed the previous day’s revelations about his job to the back of his mind. 

Maybe he was just nervous, he thought, sitting up. That was reasonable, he wasn’t keen on private audiences with Professor Bouchard at the best of times. He felt around for his notebook, eager for a hint of familiarity. He felt the worn leather beneath his fingertips, trying not to think about how the relief that flooded through him was the same he felt when he touched Martin. 

It wouldn’t do to have those kinds of thoughts. Not now. He had better things to focus on.

The cabin was unusually cold. Jon stepped into the kitchen to see Martin already dressed. His appearance was startling, the circles under his eyes rivaled Jon’s. He opened his mouth to ask if he was alright, but Martin spoke. His voice was cheerful, and Jon felt some small part of him relax. 

“We’d best be off as soon as possible, I’d like to get as much distance as we can while the sea’s still calm.” 

“Of course.” Jon said. 

“All packed?”

“Haven’t really got anything to pack.” Jon said. He had his notebook tucked under his arm, and his walking stick gripped in his hand. 

“Right.” Martin said. He reached into the bag slung around his shoulder, and pulled out something dark grey, which he handed to Jon. 

Jon unfolded it. It was a coat. 

“It was mine.” Martin said, quietly. “But I outgrew it, and- it’ll be cold on the boat. And the journey home. I thought you should have it.” 

Jon pulled it on. 

“It’s very nice. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Martin said, already turned towards the door. 

Jon followed him outside. 

Even with Martin’s- his- coat, it was bitter cold. It seeped into him like liquid, and Jon shivered. He looked up to see if Martin had noticed, and immediately wondered why he cared if Martin had noticed. He followed Martin across the frozen grass. 

“When do you think the first snow will fall?” He asked. He hadn’t realized how silent it had been until he had broken it. 

“Tonight, probably.” Martin said. Jon found he had no response.

Martin’s boat was larger than Jon’s had been, but clearly much older. He wondered if it had belonged to Martin’s father. Jon braced himself as he climbed up the ramp to the deck, trying to focus on the boards below his feet rather than the memories of crunching rock or howling winds. Martin held out a hand to help him, but he waved it off. He made it onto the deck, hand tight on his walking stick. Martin was looking at him with some concern, and he looked down to see that both his hands were shaking. 

“Er- bad memories.” He said, offering an apologetic smile to Martin. 

Martin’s mouth twisted, in a way that Jon could not begin to parse. He turned, and walked to the head of the ship. 

Jon would have followed him, attempted to distract himself in conversation with Martin. But there was a fog over the boat that was not stirred up by the sea, and so Jon found himself sitting on a crate, and immersing himself in his notes. 

He needed to recall his research anyways. 

Martin had been right, the journey to the mainland was a long one. The sun had passed its peak by the time the mainland came into view. Jon stood up, and walked over to the rail. He could make out the outline of some small buildings on the shore. Martin had told him he would be able to get a coach in the village that could take him to the train station, and from there...well, from there was Oxford. Home, Jon thought. Somehow the word didn’t quite stick. 

As they approached, Jon could see that there was a bustling system of docks in the bay beyond the town. It was full of people, more than he had seen in months, let alone interacted with. He looked over to see Martin’s face creased in concentration. He was steering them towards one of the outer docks, on the edge of the bay. It looked old and rickety, and there were hardly any people. 

“It’s my dock.” He said, noticing Jon looking. “Lighthouse keeper gets one, no rent.”  
“As a thank you?”  
Martin nodded. “I wish they’d replace it, though. I feel like I’m about to fall through it whenever I walk on it.”

Jon laughed, and then looked at Martin. He swallowed. 

“Martin- Just so you know.” He said, carefully. “If you’ve changed your mind about wanting to leave-” 

“We’ve landed.” Martin said, abruptly. He held Jon’s gaze, and then looked back out at the dock. “I’ll walk with you to the village, if you like.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” Jon said, as Martin released the ramp. He followed him down to the dock. 

They faced each other. 

Jon stuck out his hand. 

“I’ve been glad to make your acquaintance, Martin.” 

“Likewise.” Martin said, shaking Jon’s hand. His smile seemed painted on, and it sent a sharp pang through Jon’s chest. 

Jon looked at Martin for another moment. 

“Please write to me.” He said, quickly. “If- if possible, of course.” 

Then he turned around, and walked off of the dock.

* * *

Martin let the fog consume his ship as he sailed back to the island. He had always been a reckless sailor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, despite the fact that absolutely none of you asked for it, I'm here providing you with yet more angst! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and chapter 10 will be out on Friday!!! 10 is a doozy and I can't wait to post it!


	9. Stubborn Searcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is on the train to Oxford. This gives him plenty of time to think.

Jon’s notebook lay open in his lap. He had long since abandoned the task of going over his notes, and instead had been staring out of the train window, watching the English countryside roll past in a blur of gray and muted green. Unfortunately, it was not a sufficient distraction from the unease in his stomach and pain in his head. His academic lifestyle was returning far too quickly for his liking, he thought miserably. Not for the first time, his mind turned to Martin. 

He missed him. He missed his smile, and his laugh, and the fresh air of the island. But he and Martin had both known that it was time for him to go, he supposed. After all, Martin had been the one to suggest he leave in the first place, a suggestion that had left Jon feeling oddly betrayed. 

Still, he reminded himself, he had said that he would not run away from his responsibilities. It was quite unprofessional, now that he thought about it, that he had stayed away that long in the first place. The pain in his head increased as he thought about the amount of work he would have to catch up on. He wondered what Professor Bouchard would say upon his return. Probably the usual mechanical inquiries as to his well being, and then quickly turning the conversation to costs and logistics. The pain in Jon’s head had reached a crescendo, and he closed his eyes, resting his face against the cool windowpane. 

There had to be _something_ he was looking forward to upon his return to Oxford. He would be able to continue his work, his sole motivator for, well, everything. _You know, the thing you almost got yourself killed for?_ He chided himself. Perhaps he would be able to publish his findings soon. 

He reached inside his mind, looking for that burning desire to _know_ , to _understand._ The reason he had spent his childhood poking things with sticks at the beach and collecting odd objects off the docks, much to his grandmother’s chagrin. The reason he had worked tirelessly throughout his school years just to have a shot at attending university, and why, once he got there, he had gone so many sleepless nights attempting to solve just _one more problem._ The flame that had powered him all his life.

It wasn’t there. 

What he found instead was a memory of Martin. It was a rainy morning, and Martin had been sitting at the table across from Jon. He was talking, Jon couldn’t remember what about, because all he had been able to focus on was the pale blond eyelash that had fallen onto Martin’s cheek. Martin had shot him a questioning look, and without thinking Jon had reached over and swept away the eyelash with his thumb. It had sat there, shining against his skin. 

“Make a wish!” Martin had said. Jon had rolled his eyes, before blowing it off his finger. 

He hadn’t made a wish. 

This was ridiculous, Jon thought. He was a professional, he had a job, a job that he very much wanted to keep because, regardless of these recent flights of fancy, was comfortable and familiar and something Jon was actually good at. And Martin had wanted him off the island, he reminded himself harshly. 

He wished Martin hadn’t been in such an odd mood that morning. There had been absolutely no cause for it that Jon could discern. Besides, he would have liked to say goodbye properly.

Jon’s eyes snapped open. 

_Had Martin wanted him off the island?_

His lethargic thoughts seemed to whir back into motion as he sat up, barely registering the movement.

_“So do you want me to take you back?”_

The question rang in Jon’s head. He remembered Martin’s tone, careful not to betray any emotion. Martin’s exhaustion that morning, his sadness on the boat, and his false smile when Jon had said goodbye. 

Martin had given him a chance. 

And Jon hadn’t taken it. 

Jon stood up, and then immediately sat back down. He needed to think this through, to make sense of the whirlwind of just- _input_ that had entered his mind.  
Perhaps Martin had wanted him to stay on the island. That didn’t change the fact that he still had a career and a reputation to uphold. 

_Owning up to your mistakes has never been your strong suit_ , he thought. If he went back to Martin, that would be abandoning everything he had worked for, and betraying the trust of those who had given him the opportunities to do so. 

But was that also what he was doing in going back to Oxford? 

The train began to slow, and Jon looked out the window absentmindedly. A small county station. Still nowhere near Oxford. 

He remembered Professor Bouchard’s voice, telling him of his potential, and of his responsibilities, reminding him of just how much of “leniency I am giving you, Jonathan” and that if he just pushed himself a bit harder he could be a real _asset_ to the university.  
He thought of Martin, who had never asked Jon for anything but himself. 

He got up, and walked off the train.

* * *

The train journey back up to the little coastal town was a blur. Jon remembered the darkening sky, and thinking distractedly that he should probably get back to the island before it was time for Martin to light his lantern. He still wasn’t sure if he trusted himself to make the climb alone. 

The coach driver pulled up to the docks, and Jon jumped down from the car. He ignored the pain in his leg (in all of him, really, the day’s journey had not been kind to him), and stuffed a wad of bills into the driver’s hand. He limped towards the docks, realizing for the first time that he had absolutely no idea how on earth he was going to get back to the island. He could see the dark splotches of fishing boats scattered throughout the docks, but could make out no signs of life. He walked faster, his leg burning. 

He caught a figure moving near a small fishing boat on the far left dock. 

“Hullo!” He called out, his throat scraping with the noise. 

The figure stopped moving, and looked up.

“Whadja want?” It yelled back at him. 

“I need passage!” Jon yelled. “To St. Mary’s light.” 

“Whadja need that for?” 

“Er- I’ve got something. For the keeper.”

“It can’t wait til morning?” 

Jon began to move down to the dock. His leg was screaming now, but it didn’t matter. He reached the figure. 

“It can’t wait until morning.” He panted. The man surveyed him, and in the dim light Jon couldn’t tell whether it was with curiosity or disdain. 

Jon reached into his shirt pocket, and felt the handful of bills there.

The last of his research funds. 

He held them out to the man, who took them. Whatever his expression had been before, now it was one of resolute determination. 

“I’ll take ya to the light.” He said, and turned to board his boat. 

It was a stunningly clear night. Pinprick stars pierced Jon’s vision, as he surveyed the horizon for any sign of Martin’s lantern. The fisherman’s boat was faster than Martin’s, and more than once Jon had to sit down to stop himself from emptying the admittedly few contents of his stomach overboard. 

A brilliant flash of yellow light illuminated the boat. It slid off them, and returned a moment later. 

Martin’s lantern. 

Jon stretched out his leg, mentally willing it to hold for the climb up to the lantern room. 

_Five hours ago, I was on a train to Oxford,_ he thought, and a sharp, involuntary laugh burst from him. This was immediately replaced by a blinding panic as Jon realized exactly what he had done. Had he really given up on everything he had spent his adult life working for?

He supposed he had. 

He looked up at the sky again, letting the lighthouse blink in and out of his vision. The building itself had appeared about an hour ago, steadily increasing in size as they approached. He began to search for the constellations he had pointed out to Martin. Orion- the hunter. Auriga- the charioteer, Taurus- the bull. He could see himself in all of them, he supposed. A stubborn searcher, who would not give up until he had found the one last answer. 

The search had just taken him a bit longer than he had realized. 

“Where’s his dock?” 

The gruff voice cut Jon’s musings short. 

“Er- Eastern shore.” He said, pointing rather uselessly in that direction. 

The fisherman began to turn the boat, and Jon realized with a jolt just how close they were to the island. He could make out the outline of the cabin, and he felt a warm flicker in his chest.

He knew why the word “home” did not apply to Oxford. 

Jon felt his hand tighten on his walking stick as the boat pulled parallel to the dock. It was opposite Martin’s battered ship. The fisherman looked at Jon, his words clear in his face. Jon climbed over the edge of the ship, making the drop down to the worn boards of the dock. 

He had barely landed before the fisherman had turned and departed.

Jon stood and watched him go, and then turned to face the island, and the cabin, and Martin.

His walk up the dock was slow. His leg ached all the way through his hip, but his head was clear. He stepped onto the island, just in time to see a figure stepping out of the lighthouse door. 

“Martin?” 

The figure looked up, Martin’s blond curls illuminated by the glow of his lantern. He froze. 

Jon felt his face split into a smile. He walked forward, hand still clenching his walking stick. 

“Martin, oh thank god. I- I thought I might be too late, I-” 

“Jon?”

Jon stopped short. “Y-yes. It’s me. I came back.” 

“What are you doing here?” Martin asked. 

“I don’t think my research here is quite done.” Jon said. 

“O-oh?” Martin said. Even in the dim light of his lantern, Jon could see the confusion on his face.

“Martin.” Jon said, stepping forward. He could feel the warmth coming from the cabin and the fireplace and- 

_Home._

Martin’s expression was now bewildered. Looking down, Jon realized that his hands were clutching the front of Martin’s coat.

He looked back upwards, his eyes meeting Martin’s. 

“Oh, dammit.” He muttered.

And then he kissed him. 

Had he expected Martin to inhale in surprise, and then to kiss him back, the motion feeling so natural, like a mere extension of his breath? Had he expected him to wrap his arms around Jon, encircling him in warmth and confirming that, for once in his life, Jon had done the right thing? 

Martin broke away. 

“Jon, I-” 

“I’m sorry, Martin. I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left.” 

“But your research…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon said, letting his hand fall to meet Martin’s. He touched it, lightly, and Martin let him. 

“You matter.” He said. 

Martin met his eyes, and Jon didn’t need to hear his question to answer it. 

“I’m not leaving.” He whispered. “I promise.” 

Martin smiled. It was small and fragile, and blinded Jon with its brilliance.

“Let’s go inside.” He said, taking Martin’s hand in his. 

“Jon, the lantern.” 

“Oh. Of course.” He smiled at Martin, feeling dizzy. “I take it you wouldn’t say no to some stargazing?” He leaned in, as close as he could be to Martin. He couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. “I could use a research partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH I really hope you guys liked this chapter! I've had the last scene in my notes app since like, August, I'm so glad I finally get to share it with you all! Some quick news, while I'll be uploading the next chapter on Tuesday, the chapter after that likely won't be up for another week, as next chapter marks the end of my backlog. Again, I hope you all liked it, and thank you for reading!


	10. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on the island changes now that there's two people living there.

Martin could get used to this.

It had been three weeks. The way he and Jon fit together still didn’t feel natural, neither of them were used to sharing their nights with another. But natural would come with time. For now, there was warmth there, and that was enough. It was the absence of that warmth that had woken Martin up, at an hour, that, from what he could tell, was completely unreasonable for him. He opened his eyes blearily to see Jon sitting up on the side of the bed. 

“Morning, love.”

Martin smiled. He hadn’t known what to expect with Jon after the night he had come back to the island, as the beginnings of their romance had been silent ventures. But adoring words now flowed from Jon in abundance, and Martin drank them like holy wine. 

He didn’t need to respond before Jon’s hand strayed to his. 

“Sorry I woke you.” He said, his eyes cast downwards. “I just- I’m writing a letter, and I need some time to do it.” 

“A letter?”

“To Professor Bouchard. I-I’m not going back, you understand-” He said, looking at Martin with a nervous intensity. “I just need to explain.” 

Martin sat up and squeezed Jon’s hand. “I understand.” 

Jon kissed his forehead, his lips like a hot coal pressing into a block of ice.

“Thank you.” Jon whispered. 

Martin woke up to Jon’s return, his body dipping into the mattress. 

“Thank God.” He mumbled, throwing his arm around him. “I was freezing.” 

“Well I’m certainly not going to help with that, I was outside for a bit.” Jon said. Even through his thick sweater Martin could feel that he was cold. 

“Just you being here will help.” Martin said, smiling sleepily. He could tell that Jon had furrowed his brow without seeing his face.

“Not only does that go against the laws of thermodynamics, it-”

“Jon.” 

“Right.” Jon said, rolling over. Martin felt him exhale against his neck. He moved his hand slightly, and it caught in the fold’s of Jon’s sweater. 

“We really ought to get you some clothes that aren’t mine.” He said. 

“I haven’t got any money for clothes.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“When’s the next time you’re going to the mainland?” Jon asked. 

Martin looked up at the ceiling, doing a mental tally. “Tomorrow.” He said, after a moment. “I’m actually overdue.” He looked down at Jon, now curled into his chest. “I didn’t exactly think to get supplies the last time I was on the mainland.” 

He felt Jon’s hands tighten around him. “We’ll go together, then?” 

Jon was looking up at Martin, an odd expression in his face. Martin nodded. 

“Yes. We’ll go together.” 

The rest of the day was spent, well, how most of their days were spent. Martin tidied up and did various jobs around the lighthouse, and Jon assisted him. Occasionally they would walk around the island, and nights were normally spent together in the lantern room. Jon often cooked, something Martin was keen to encourage as he was, despite his protests, very good at it. 

“Would you like me to come up with you tonight?” Jon asked. Martin was collecting the plates after their dinner.

“If you like.” Martin said. He glanced out the window. “Looks cloudy, though. Doubt there’ll be much in the way of stargazing.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon said, and Martin heard him stand up. A second later, two thin arms slid around his middle. He leaned into the embrace, feeling Jon’s head rest against his shoulder. Martin sighed. 

“Jon?” He said, his voice higher than he had intended. “I- I wouldn’t have been angry if you left.”

“What?” He felt Jon’s head leave his shoulder, his gaze on the back of Martin’s head. 

“I mean, obviously I didn’t want you to, but you- you could have. I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay here if it’s not what you want. I mean- you gave up everything to stay here.” 

“Martin, I’m willing to take whatever stipulations come with you.” 

“Are you sure?” Martin said, quietly, clutching the plate in his hands. 

He felt Jon’s hands move to his hips, gently turning him around to face him. 

“If I kiss you, will you believe me?” 

Martin laughed, more at the sincerity in Jon’s expression than in his request. Jon did not await further instruction. 

The fog was thick around the lighthouse that night. Martin never liked nights like this, they had all the anxiety of a squall but none of the catharsis that the howling winds and lashing rains provided. He sat in the lantern room in his rocking chair, attempting to read from the poetry volume he had brought up with him. Jon was sitting at his feet, leg stretched out in front of him, fiddling with the telescope. Martin looked out the window. Unsurprisingly, nothing had changed, the fog was as oppressive as ever, but the lantern room windows were fastened securely against its weight.

He got up nonetheless, taking the telescope from Jon.

“I should go have a look.” 

“Make sure there aren’t any washed up explorers on your shore?” 

“Please.” Martin said, rolling his eyes. “I can hardly handle one.” 

He walked out onto the gallery, scanning the sky. There was no point. The fog devoured everything.

He walked back into the lantern room with Jon, glad to be protected from it. 

Jon had picked up his book and was leafing through it absently. 

“I thought you said you didn’t like poetry.” Martin said, sitting back down in his chair heavily. 

“I just said it doesn’t make much sense.” 

“It doesn’t always have to make sense.” Martin said. “It’s not a puzzle you need to solve, sometimes you just need to experience it. Here.”  
He flipped to a random page, and cleared his throat. 

_“Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—  
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night  
And watching, with eternal lids apart,  
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,  
The moving waters at their priestlike task  
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,  
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask  
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—  
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,  
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,  
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,  
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,  
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,  
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”_

He shut the book. 

“I suppose he was talking about someone he loved.” Jon said, shrugging. 

“Alright, but what did it make you think about?” Martin asked. “What did it make you feel? You know you get to decide the meaning, right?” 

Jon paused for a moment. “It...made me think about you reading it.”

Martin was about to tell him off, but he continued. “A-and that’s nice.” He said, looking up at Martin. “It made me think about hearing someone I care about reading me a poem.” 

Martin smiled. “I think that’s an excellent analysis.”

* * *

They were up early the next morning, so early it was practically still night. The stars glistened on the frozen lawn. They would only have a few hours in town if they wanted to make it back to the lighthouse by dark. Jon had one hand on his walking stick and the other in Martin’s, as gloves were another object on the list of supplies they’d need to get. He was bundled in Martin’s old coat, sunk low into the collar and his scarf, another thing he had given Jon. How much of themselves were made up of each other, Martin wondered. 

He felt Jon’s hand clasp his a little tighter as they approached the boat. He said nothing, just returning the gesture. Jon could trust him not to let them drown.  
He helped Jon up the ramp onto the boat. 

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon said, straightening out his coat as he reached the deck. Martin laughed. 

“What?” Jon said, smiling. “I have to make some effort to keep up appearances. You do realize this is more people than I’ve interacted with in nearly three months, right?” 

“Right, what torture it must have been, trapped on a remote island with only the lighthouse keeper for company.” 

Jon responded by kissing Martin’s cheek, which, in Martin’s opinion, was a perfectly suitable answer. 

Martin watched Jon change as they sailed towards the mainland. The academic manner he had had when he and Martin first met had long since crumbled, but there was something beyond nervousness in the way he held himself, back ramrod straight and hands on the rail of the boat. He walked over to him.  
“Seeing anything interesting?”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t have any of my instruments with me, so no, nothing particularly interesting.” 

Martin turned to go. 

“Wait- Martin.”

Jon was looking at him, that same odd expression on his face. 

“Today… today will be nice.” He said.

Yeah, it will.” Martin said, nonplussed. 

Jon shook his head. “No, no. It’s just- the men at Oxford, my colleagues, they all had wives, or what have you, and sometimes they would talk about how they had taken them to the city for an evening, or to a party and it always seemed...pleasant. Even if I’d never admit it. But I’ve never been good at...that sort of thing, I suppose. I mean-” He rubbed his hands together nervously, then looked up at Martin with a crooked smile. “I want it to be nice. For you.” 

Martin took Jon’s hand in his, sweeping his thumb across the back of it.

“It will be nice. It always is.” 

Jon’s face set, his back straightening. 

“I’ll make sure of that.” 

Martin couldn’t help but laugh at the determination in his expression, and it broke with the sound. Jon smiled, squeezing Martin’s hand, and returned to looking at the sea.

* * *

It was late morning when they docked. Jon and Martin disembarked, walking down Martin’s rickety dock to the coach stop. They waited there, the bright sun doing little to dispel the cold. A coach pulled up to the station, and Martin counted out money for the driver and helped Jon up the step.  
“I feel like a lady being courted.” Jon said, his tone halfway between irritated and amused. 

Martin laughed as he swung himself into the seat beside Jon. Jon rolled his eyes, and rested his head against the window.  
The coach began to move. Martin turned to look out the window as well, and felt a warmth on the back of his hand. He smiled, not turning his attention away, and flipped his hand over so that his fingers intertwined with Jon’s. There was no longer any pretense, just the simple acts they shared.  
The sea began to disappear behind them as they rode further inland, the rough stone giving way to gentle fields. Cottages began to spring up, set against well kept plots of farmland dusted with snow.

The coach stopped at the station on the outskirts of town. The snow was heavier here, crunching under Jon and Martin’s boots. Jon looked around at the snow covered buildings, all lined with holly and pine boughs. He turned back to Martin, wide eyed.  
“Good lord, is it- is it nearly Christmas?”

Martin laughed. “Yeah, it is.” He elbowed Jon. “That reminds me. Christmas day, you’re coming to church with me.”  
“Church?”

“Yes, Jon.” 

“I can’t remember the last time I went to church.” He mumbled. 

“Oh dear, maybe you’ll burst into flames when you step inside.”

“Martin, really. That’s a ridiculous superstition.”

“Maybe you’ll like it. Good things come when you keep your mind open, remember?” He smiled conspiratorially. 

Jon rolled his eyes. “If it’ll make you happy.”

“It will.”

“Well, then that’s settled.”

They set off down the main street. Martin counted off the shops as they went. 

“Right- so our first stop is the tailor’s, so we can finally get you some clothes you’re not swimming in. Then to Beckett’s- that’s the grocer’s. Then to the general store, then to the bookstore.” 

Martin could feel the eyes of the villagers on him as he and Jon walked down the street. It took him a moment to realize why- none of them had ever seen him with anyone else before. 

“Mr. Blackwood!” The tailor said as they stepped into his shop. “Been a while since I’ve seen you, you’re quite self sufficient, I’ve always thought. Been a fine lighthouse keeper, you have. So-” He said, leaning over the counter. “What requires my services today?” 

“I’m here for him, actually.” Martin said, gesturing towards Jon. The tailor started, as if noticing Jon for the first time. 

“Ah! Apologies, sir. And your name is…”

“Er- Sims.” Jon said, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to bolt from the shop. “Jonathan Sims.” He waited a moment too long before awkwardly sticking out his hand. The tailor shook it, now eyeing Jon with an air of suspicion.

“So, Mr. Blackwood’s taken on an assistant keeper, then?” 

Jon’s face blanched, and Martin hurriedly explained. “Erm- not an assistant, exactly. More of a companion.” 

The tailor’s eyes flitted between Jon and Martin. “Well.” He said, stepping out from behind the counter. “I suppose we all need company.” 

The tailor had a few, albeit worn and outdated, items of clothing that fit Jon, which Martin gladly paid for. He would be glad to have his favorite sweaters back, even if Jon did look endearing in them. 

The rest of their stops went in much the same fashion, aside from the fact that Jon grew a modicum more relaxed with every person they spoke to, even going so far as to offer the shopkeeper at the general store a thin and nervous smile. As the sun hit its zenith, Martin opened the bright red door to the bookshop, feeling the rush of warmth and the scent of leather and ink hit his face as he did so. 

“Mr. Stanley?” He called, then immediately clamped his mouth shut. Every time he spoke in here it sounded far too loud. He smiled at the sight of Jon, who was gaping open-mouthed at the piles of books around him. 

“Martin?”

Martin turned to face the red haired man who had appeared behind the counter. He smiled jovially. “Ah, Martin! I’ve been wondering when you’d be back.” He dug under the desk for a moment before pulling out a slim book. 

“For you. I know you take particular interest in my poetry collection, so when this was delivered to me I thought I would put it aside for your consideration.” He said, placing it on the counter. 

“I- thank you, Mr. Stanley.” Martin said, pulling out the last of his money. He looked up, smiling, but Mr. Stanley was looking rather pointedly at a spot behind Martin.  
“Can I help you, sir?” He said, his voice taking on a slightly sterner quality. 

Martin turned just in time to see Jon’s neck snap around as if a gunshot had gone off.

“O-oh. He’s with me.” Martin said, turning back to face Mr. Stanley. “He’s er- he’s a friend of mine.” 

“A friend?” Mr. Stanley said, cocking his head slightly to one side. His eyes seemed to see through Martin’s skin, but his face was not unkind.  
“Er- yes. A companion, I suppose.” 

“Ah.” Mr. Stanley said quietly, a small smile passing over his lips.

Martin realized that Mr. Stanley’s hand had slid over his. 

“It is a lovely thing.” He said, smiling at Martin. “A lovely thing indeed to have a friend.” He nudged the book closer to Martin. “A few of these poems will be of...particular interest to you, then.” He glanced back over Martin’s shoulder, apparently at Jon.

“You know.” He whispered conspiratorially, “He reminds me quite a bit of a...companion. I used to have back in London.” He patted Martin’s hand before withdrawing his. 

“No charge.” He said, shaking his head at the money Martin still held. “For you or your friend, whose acquaintance I still have not made.” He said, slightly more loudly. Jon was prepared this time, holding out his hand to Mr. Stanley. 

“Jonathan Sims.” He said. 

“Pleasure.” Mr. Stanley said. “You have quite good taste in literature, Mr. Sims.” He eyed the book clasped in Jon’s hand. “In literature and in company.” 

It was quite a while before they left the bookshop. As the door swung shut behind them, Martin felt Jon’s hand slide into his.  
“People will stare.” He said, quietly.

Jon squeezed his hand more tightly. “Let them.”

* * *

They collapsed into bed that night, not even bothering to change. The cabin was cold from the lack of use that day, and so they huddled close. Yet sleep evaded Martin. He couldn’t seem to get quite comfortable, and at times had difficulty catching his breath. His eyes felt heavy, and the blankets began to fade in and out of existence around him. He wondered vaguely if he was ill, he normally avoided winter’s various ailments simply by being isolated from them, but it wasn’t impossible that he had caught something in town. He felt his chest tighten, and sat up just in time to release a hacking cough. He felt Jon stir beside him. 

“Martin, are you alright?"

“I’m fine. You should sleep.”

“I could say the same to you.” 

“I can’t.” Martin said, shifting uncomfortably. He turned away from Jon to cough again, feeling it scratch his throat raw. 

“Does this help?” Jon asked, running his fingers through Martin’s hair. Martin closed his eyes. 

“It does.” He said, shifting closer to Jon’s side. “It’s really nothing.” 

This marked the first time he had ever lied to Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter was literally just me writing pure cotton candy level fluff. I hope you enjoyed it, and sorry for leaving you all on That Ending! A quick note, Mr. Stanley is an original character based on a friend of mine with their permission. You know who you are and I hope I did you justice!   
> As mentioned previously, the next chapter won't be up until next Tuesday as I still have to write it! Happy reading until then!


	11. Unexpected Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is ill, something that all of Jon's research could not have prepared him for.

_The cabin was burning._

Jon spun around, looking for an exit, for any way to leave, and finding none, set himself searching for water. Sand. Anything that would help him escape this place. The sea surrounded him and yet he was burning, and there was nothing he could do. 

His eyes flew open. He inhaled shakily, his heart stuttering like gunfire. No flames. Just Martin beside him, soft and comforting and warm. 

Too warm. 

Jon pulled the sweat-drenched fabric of his shirt away from his skin. He was soaked through, and the heat beneath the blankets was nearly unbearable. He rolled over to see Martin, and felt his stomach drop. His face was flushed a bright, unnatural pink, and his chest rose and fell at irregular intervals.   
Jon pressed the back of his hand to Martin’s forehead, despite knowing exactly what he would feel. 

“Oh, Martin.” He whispered, letting all of the dread in his mind creep into the words. Martin’s eyes fluttered open.

“Jon?” He said, his voice barely audible. He winced, as if speaking caused him pain. 

“You should sleep.” Jon said, stroking back Martin’s hair. “I’ll get you some tea, alright?” 

Martin shook his head. 

“Mm fine.” He said, his face contorted in an expression that proved quite the opposite. 

“You’re clearly not.” 

Martin tried to push himself up, making it only halfway before his shaking arm gave out beneath him. 

“Jon-” He choked out, his face pleading. “You don’t understand-” 

“I understand you’re not well.” Jon said, hoping his voice sounded firm and authoritative instead of betraying the rising panic he felt. “And I’m going to make you some tea.” 

Jon held it together long enough to make it to the kitchen, before his mind fractured into a million buzzing anxieties. 

The fact was, he had absolutely no idea how to care for Martin. He could hardly care for himself. For God’s sake, Martin had had to practically restrain him from taking a day long train journey with a broken leg. Should he try to sail off the island and get help? It seemed like the only solution, to get someone more qualified than him on there, but the thought of leaving Martin for the day’s journey made his stomach lurch. Mechanically, he opened the cabin door, walking to fill the kettle with wellwater. He barely felt the winter air. 

He lit the fire, standing back to rub his eyes. Martin would be all right. There was simply no other option.

That didn’t stop his hands from shaking as he scooped tea leaves into a mug. He watched them stain the water he poured over them a deep brown. He filled it only halfway, pouring cool wellwater in as well. He wished he had honey, or something else that could ease the obvious pain in Martin’s throat. He settled for a large amount of sugar. 

“Love?” He said quietly, entering the bedroom. Martin’s eyes opened halfway, he had fallen back asleep in Jon’s absence. 

“Come on.” He said, setting down the tea. He hooked his hands beneath Martin’s arms, lifting him up onto the pillows, the memory of Martin’s hands underneath his own arms flooding back as he did so. 

Martin attempted to push himself up on his own. 

“You’re just as bad as I was.” Jon said, the attempted joke conveying more desperation than he’d have liked.

“Jon…” Martin said, but his words turned to a coughing fit. 

“Don’t overexert yourself. Here.” 

Martin folded trembling hands around the mug, and a split second later Jon had to snatch it as it fell from his grasp. His heart wrenched as he looked back into Martin’s face, he appeared to be on the verge of tears. 

“It’s alright.” He said softly, raising the mug to Martin’s mouth. His hands were shaking nearly as badly as Martin’s. Martin drank cautiously. 

“Thank you, Jon.” Martin whispered. Jon set down the mug. 

“Sleep, then?” He asked, offering his arms to assist Martin in laying back down. Martin glanced at the door, but Jon could see the fatigue and fever begin to glaze over his eyes once more. He had barely sat back against the pillows when his eyes closed, leaving Jon with the task of making him comfortable. 

There was a time when Jon had enjoyed silence. 

But now, laying beside Martin, the near silence only loudened the buzzing in his head. Will Martin be alright? Why was Martin acting so strangely? Was it the fever, or something else? Was there something Jon could do that he was missing, had he learned and forgotten something that could make this better? What if he didn’t find out in time? Will Martin be alright? 

_"I can figure this out."_ Jon thought. This was just like any other research project- if he collected enough evidence, he could come to a logical conclusion and decide on a course of action. 

So. What were the trademarks of a fever, and what were the signs that it was getting better. Jon listed off the things he could check in his head: temperature, breathing- should he check Martin’s pulse as well? That didn’t seem necessary, but he didn’t particularly want to rest his chances on a “didn’t seem.” 

Cautiously, he touched Martin’s arm. It was cooler than it had been earlier, so that was good- or was it cooler? Or were Jon’s hands just warm from the mug of tea, or was Martin’s sleeve blocking the heat? He pulled back from Martin slightly. Was he breathing more regularly, or was it just that Jon hadn’t been paying attention to his breathing? He slid his hand beneath Martin’s sleeve to check his pulse, his fingers barely pressing down on the skin before Martin’s hand clamped around them.  
Martin’s eyes snapped open, his expression panicked and wild. Jon snatched his hand out of Martin’s grip before he could think about the action, the sudden movement making Martin gasp. 

“Martin! It- it’s just me. It’s just Jon. I’m here.” 

Martin’s chest was heaving. Jon sat up, moving backwards so as not to provoke him further. 

“Jon?” His voice was still spread thin, barely bridging the distance between them.

“Yes. It’s me. What- what was that?” Jon asked.

Martin covered his face with his hand. “Don’t know.” He said. “I just- I was dreaming, I think, and-” Jon watched, horrified, as a single tear leaked through Martin’s fingers. “I was dreaming I was lost, and it was so cold and- your hands burned.” He whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, it- it was stupid and you were just trying to touch me and-” 

“It’s fine, love. It’s fine.” Jon said, pressing his lips to Martin’s forehead. “You’re ill. It’s fine.” 

“It’s _not_.” Martin said. 

Jon hesitated. “Well.” He said, treading delicately. “Why don’t you get some more rest, and then you can tell me why it’s not fine?” He grimaced.  
Martin cast a suspicious glance at Jon, but once again exhaustion seemed to win the battle. Jon rested his hand on Martin’s sleeve, careful not to touch his skin directly, until he was certain that Martin was asleep again. 

He turned onto his back. He would have to take a different approach to caring for Martin. For all his studying, he thought miserably, he did not appear to be very knowledgeable when it came to the things that mattered. 

Jon did not remember when he had fallen asleep, only that he was jolted awake by a dip in the mattress and a cry of pain. It was dark outside, and no candles had been lit. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out Martin’s outline, sitting at the end of the bed, and apparently holding his head in his hands. 

“Martin?” Jon said, scrambling towards him. “W-what happened, what’s wrong?” 

“Dark outside.” Martin murmured. “Lantern-”

“What?” Jon said. “You can’t be serious. Look at you. The lantern can go dark tonight, I’ll make you some supper.”

Martin’s head jerked upwards. “No! I’ve got to- I can’t- can’t let it-” He was gasping with the effort, but nonetheless attempted to stand. Jon grabbed his arm. 

“Jon…” Martin whined, trying to free himself. Jon’s eyes had fully adjusted to the dark, and he could see the tears streaking down Martin’s face. Jon released him, and instantly regretted it as Martin tried to stand again. 

“Martin.” Jon said, grabbing his hands this time, forcing his voice to remain calm despite the panic in his throat that threatened to overtake it. “Please. You’re ill. If it really is that much of a concern, I’ll light the lantern tonight, and then come back down and stay with you. I- I know it’s a risk.” He swallowed. “But I’m not leaving you like this.” 

To his horror, he saw Martin’s frame begin to shake. 

“I failed.” Martin sobbed. “I- I can’t even do the- the one thing-” His body stilled, and Jon’s breath stilled with it. 

Then he stood, took one step forward, and not a moment later Jon was thanking whatever God there may have been that he had such quick reflexes. 

“Nononononono.” Jon whispered, arms trembling beneath Martin’s body. As carefully as he could, he maneuvered him back onto the bed. 

This time, it was necessary to check Martin’s pulse, but the relief Jon felt at the movement beneath his fingers was quickly washed away by the tidal wave of remaining fear.

“Come on.” He said, his voice finally breaking. “I just found you. I can’t lose you.” 

He felt the hull of his ship giving way once more, exposing the cruel and cold waters below, and again it was his fault, his lack of understanding, that had caused its destruction. 

He laid down beside Martin, pulling him close with some difficulty. What comfort could he offer besides himself, pitiful as he was? 

“Please.” He whispered, aware that, had the person he had been 6 months ago heard it, he would have thought Jon a stranger. Martin did not respond, shallow breaths barely grazing Jon’s neck. Jon glanced out the window. It had started to rain. 

If something happened to Martin, he would never forgive himself. But if he didn’t light the lantern, Martin would never forgive him. 

“I’m not leaving you.” He whispered, as he raised himself from the bed. “I’m coming back. I promise I’m coming back.”

Jon didn’t stop running until he had reached the lantern room. Barely stopping to breathe, he grabbed the oil canister from the shelf and tipped it into the base of the lantern, realizing as he did so that he had no idea how much to put in. Well, now was not the time for precision. He flicked the switch, the lantern momentarily blinding him. Stumbling backwards, he felt for the door handle, and took off down the stairs. The lantern cast its beam into the storm, but Jon could have sworn that the cries he heard were not from the wind. 

The cabin was alarmingly still. Jon felt like a trespasser as he entered, his boots squeaking against the floor. He had at least thought to take the hand held lantern from the table before setting out into the storm, and now held it aloft as he walked down the hall. It illuminated Martin’s face. His eyes opened slightly, and focused on Jon. Relief flooded every part of him. 

“I’m back.” He said, setting down the lantern. “I told you I’d be back.” Kicking off his boots, he climbed back into the bed beside Martin. His eyes followed Jon. “The lantern’s been lit.” He said. 

“Oh.” Martin breathed, his eyes closing again. 

Jon wasn’t sure how to read the expression on his face, but he was sure that it was not relief. 

He decided to worry about it tomorrow, and pulled the blankets over him and Martin once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I had some unexpected time to finish this chapter, so you're all getting it early! Woohoo! A huge shoutout to my friend (thank u Mr. Stanley) for helping me plan out this chapter and get past my writer's block. I know that I keep torturing you guys with more angst, but I promise this fic will have a happy ending, and it's actually coming up soon! Next chapter will be up next Friday at the latest. Also, thank you all so much for over 1,000 hits and 100 kudos, and as always, thank you for reading!


	12. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recoveries are made in both body and mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some pretty heavy discussion of guilt related to parental death, so please read with caution if that's something that bothers you.

Martin Blackwood ached. The light filtering through the window was a steely gray, and it seemed to be much earlier than the late mornings his unusual schedule allowed for. Martin closed his eyes again, allowing his other senses to take over. He was in bed, and there was something warm next to him. The realization of what exactly that presence was didn’t register until a moment later, when a volley of coughs erupted from Martin’s throat. Jon shot up beside him. 

“Martin?” His voice sounded far away. 

Martin could barely scrape out a response before he was coughing again. He vaguely processed the feeling of Jon’s hands slid around his waist, lifting him up. He frowned. Jon shouldn’t waste his energy like that. He made to push him away, but found his arms did not seem to be remotely capable of carrying out the command. Then lips were being pressed to his cheek, and the warmth beside him was gone, and he was slipping back into darkness. 

A mug was being pressed into his hands, then raised to his mouth. Something warm and salty slid down his throat, and thin fingers stroked back his hair. It felt nice. Martin smiled, then blinked, and Jon’s concerned face appeared in front of him. 

“Are you alright?” Martin whispered. Jon looked terrible, his already lined face exhausted and worn. He smiled, though, at Martin’s question. 

“Just fine. How are you feeling?” 

Martin looked down. The sun had managed to pierce through the clouds, a single shaft illuminating the hands encircling his as he gripped the mug. 

“It’s daytime.” He said, stupidly. This felt important, although he couldn’t seem to ascertain why. 

“Yes, it is.” Jon said. “Are you tired? You can rest some more if you need.” 

Even through Martin’s addled thoughts, he could detect the note of worry in Jon’s tone. 

“It’s daytime.” He repeated, his voice higher. _Why did it matter?_

“You should rest.” Jon said, firmly. He gently removed the mug from Martin’s hands, hitching his arms around his waist once more. In the descent, Martin caught a glimpse out of the window. 

The lighthouse. 

He whirled around, the sudden movement leaving his head swimming, unable to tell up from down. For a moment he was on his own, spinning through a world he did not recognize, and then Jon’s arms were around him again. 

“Martin. Martin!” 

“The lantern.” Martin said, grabbing Jon’s wrist. “It’s daytime, that means- last night, the lantern?” 

“I lit it.” 

The lantern had been lit.

Martin had not been the one to light it.

“You should sleep.” Jon murmured, smoothing back Martin’s hair. 

Martin did not argue, and let the light slip away from him again.

* * *

The sun was setting when Martin awoke. He felt utterly spent as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, but his mind was mercifully clear. Jon was gone. _Probably to light the lantern_ , Martin thought, and his already empty stomach twisted painfully. He rested his own hand on his forehead, the once familiar action suddenly jarring. He wondered if Jon had performed it as well. His head felt normal, but he remembered vague patches of pain and uncomfortable heat. How long had he been ill, unable to do his duty? He pushed himself up on trembling arms, attempting to swing his legs over the side of the bed. 

A shadow graced the edge of the doorway, and Martin froze. 

“The lantern’s lit, love.” Jon said gently, approaching Martin. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to bed.” 

“I’m alright.” Martin said, holding his hand out in front of him. Jon stopped short, eyebrows drawn together. 

“You’ll forgive me if I require a bit more evidence for that.” He said. He pressed his hand to Martin’s forehead. Martin couldn’t suppress his smile, which only widened as Jon’s frame sagged with relief, 

“Oh thank God.” He muttered, slinging his arms around Martin’s neck. “I- Martin, you have no idea, I was so-” He pressed his face into Martin’s collarbone, then straightened up. “Well, your fever broke. That- that’s good. You should still stay in bed, though.” 

Martin began to protest, but Jon gave him a look that had not appeared since his early days on the island. 

“I told you. The lantern’s already been lit. I’m getting you some supper, and then you’re resting.” 

“Thank you, but really, you don’t need-” 

“Where have I heard that one before?” Jon said, crossing his arms. 

“You don’t understand.” Martin sighed. “I appreciate you taking care of me, I really do. It’s just the lantern- it’s _my_ job, you know? A-and obviously I understand that I was ill, it’s just…” He trailed off. Someone had helped him. Someone had stayed. The guilt tasted like sand in his mouth. 

“If you’re concerned about me being incapable, I can assure you that that is not the case. I’ve watched you light it dozens of times, and you’ll notice that the lighthouse is still standing from last night as well.” Jon said, his voice approaching dangerous tones.

“What? No, of course it’s not about that!” 

“Then why, Martin?” Jon said, raking his hand through his hair. “Why are you so insistent on this?” 

“Because it’s my own fault that I have to light the damn thing in the first place!” 

“What does _that_ mean? It’s your fault that you were born into a family of lighthouse keepers? It was your fault that your mother died?” 

“Yes!” Martin yelled, his voice breaking. He looked down at his hands, unable to muster the willpower to cover his face despite the tears flowing down it. 

He felt a hand on his cheek. 

“Please tell me what happened.” Jon said, quietly. 

Martin bit his lip. “You’ll hate me.” 

“Oh, _Martin_.” 

Martin inhaled. “She was sick. I’ve mentioned that. It was just me and her on the island. I- I didn’t want to leave her, Jon.” He glanced upwards, then back at his hands, unable to bear Jon's gentle expression. “I wanted to get help.” He whispered. “I didn’t think I could do it on my own, so I sailed off to get help. A-and when I came back-” His chest hitched painfully. “If I’d known-” 

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” Martin said, glaring at Jon. “I left her, Jon. The least I can do is keep up her memory.” 

“And try to save everyone else.” Jon said, smiling sadly. 

“What?” 

“Your entire job is keeping sailors from being shipwrecked. You run that lantern religiously every night, don’t tell me that has nothing to do with your mother.” 

“And so what if it does?” Martin spluttered. “Isn’t that right? I did something wrong, so isn’t it right that I should do, I don’t know, penance?” 

“Martin, look at me.” 

Martin raised his head, and resisted the urge to duck it again at the sadness in Jon’s expression.

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see you, Jon.” Martin said, confused. Jon smiled.

“You see someone that you saved.” He said. “You saw someone who made so, so many mistakes- who couldn’t even properly thank you for everything you’d done- and you _saved_ him.” 

“So, is that it?” Martin said, his lower lip wobbling. “I’ve done my penance by saving you?” 

“You have nothing to do penance for. If anyone does, it's me” Jon said. Martin vaguely registered his thumb sweeping across his cheekbone. “I mean it.” Jon said, catching the doubt in Martin’s expression. “You have no wrongs to right. But you saved me anyway. You give so freely, Martin, even to someone who's done wrong.” He kissed his forehead. “Why don't you think you deserve the same?” 

“Because none of it changes what I’ve done.” 

“Then if you need to think of saving me as penance for whatever sins you think you’ve committed then that- we can work with that.” Jon said, squeezing Martin’s hand. "You've done so much for me, Martin- can that be enough for now?" 

Martin felt the sob rise in his throat before he could stop it. 

Jon hugged him, his thin arms somehow stronger than Martin had ever felt. Against all better judgement, Martin nodded. 

“Thank you.” Jon whispered. “We can start here, then. Now-” He said, standing up. “I’m going to make you some supper.”

* * *

“Jon?” Martin asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to darn a pair of socks in the fading sunlight. 

“Yes?”

“I was thinking.” He said, setting down his needle. “Well, I was thinking that I could show you how to light the lantern properly.” 

“Oh?” Jon turned around from the pot of stew he had been stirring. 

“Just in case something happens, and I’m not able.” Martin said, keeping his eyes trained carefully on the table. “It only makes sense to have someone else who knows how to care for the lighthouse.” 

He heard Jon approach the table, and watched his hand slide over his. 

“That’s a very rational suggestion, Martin.” 

“Maybe all your talk about research has started to rub off on me.” 

“Perhaps.” Jon said, a smile audible in his voice.

* * *

“Alright.” Jon stood beside Martin, oil canister in hand. He looked nearly as nervous as Martin felt. 

“I know you’ve lit the lantern before, but, I’ll just tell you what to do, and you follow what I say, alright?” 

Jon nodded. 

“So, obviously you’ve got your oil, the actual reserves are in those barrels over there, and you’ve got this little opening here, at the base of the lantern, see?” He pointed out the measurements on the side of the base, showed Jon the mechanism that increased the height of the wick, even opened the small maintenance panel that showed all of the inner workings of the lantern. Jon followed his instructions carefully, and Martin could practically see the gears whirring in his head, storing the information away somewhere he would never forget it. “Alright, shield your eyes.” Martin said, and flipped the switch. 

In that first moment of brilliance, he felt Jon’s hand slide into his. As the light fell into steady rhythm around them, he saw that Jon was smiling. 

“What?” 

“You’re a very good teacher.”

Martin snorted. “Thanks.” He looked around the lantern room. “Well, nothing’s on fire, and it’s burning bright, and the frequency is correct.” He looked at Jon. “Well done!” 

Jon laughed. 

“Settle in.” Martin said, sitting down in his chair. “It’s the winter solstice. We’ll be here a while.” 

Jon sat down in the chair next to Martin’s. It was a new feature of the room, but Martin found it fit quite nicely. 

“I’d imagine winter is a difficult time to be a lighthouse keeper.” Jon said. He squeezed Martin’s hand. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.” 

Martin shut his eyes. _Jon wants this_ , he reminded himself. _He wants to help._ It still didn’t feel right. That was alright. They had time. 

“I never minded the long nights. It gave me time to reflect, I guess.” 

“And now?” Jon said. Martin could feel his gaze. He returned the squeeze to Jon’s hand, and hoped that was answer enough. 

If Jon’s contented sigh was anything to go on, it was. 

“I certainly chose a desirable place to be shipwrecked, didn’t I?” 

“Don’t say that. You still could’ve died.” Martin said, glancing at Jon.

“And yet, here we are.” Jon said, smiling at Martin. Martin shook his head, but exhaled a laugh all the same. He returned his gaze to the window of the lantern room, the lighthouse beacon illuminating his field of vision, then leaving it in darkness again. 

Martin Blackwood was the keeper of St. Mary’s Light. 

He wondered how he had ever been content to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's done!!!! I cannot believe this fic is finally over, I've been working on it since September and I honestly don't know what I'll do with myself now that it's done. (Hint: i'll try to start on another AU)   
> That being said, I believe some thank you's are in order! Thank you to Haon and Mr. Stanley for being amazing beta readers and amazing friends. Special thank you to Mr. Stanley for coming up with the whole "Jon and Martin light the lantern together" thing. I wouldn't have had the motivation to write this fic without your support, so I can't thank either of you enough. Also, thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this fic, or even just read every chapter. This is my first time writing anything longer than a one-shot, and my first time posting any of my fic, so the support I got from all of you was absolutely mind blowing. Thank you thank you thank you.   
> Like I mentioned earlier, I will be trying to start another historical AU as this one was so fun to write. No promises as to if/when it will be up, as I do have a lot of other things going on, but y'all will definitely see it if it gets written!   
> Again, thank you all so much for all your support during this fic. I hope you found the ending satisfying and that it made all of the angst in the middle worth it! Happy reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting anything on here, as you can probably tell. I'll be uploading a new chapter every Tuesday/Friday, as I have a pretty decent backlog for this fic. Thank you guys for reading, and I hope you enjoy!


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